


don't get cut on my edges

by whiskeyjack



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: (to the best of my abilities), Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Bad Decisions, Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hot Tub Shenanigans, Implied/Referenced Character Death, POV Beth Boland, POV Rio (Good Girls), Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy, Too Much Drinking, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, a little bit more angst, despite what he thinks Rio doesn't know his bubbly, it's not covid in this world guys, shameless canada promoting, spas being sold/auctioned off under vaguely realistic terms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28673076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyjack/pseuds/whiskeyjack
Summary: oh look! another post season 3 reconciliation fic! things you can expect here:-angst!-unresolved sexual tension? you know it. will it be resolved? probably. these two are thirsty idiots.-lots of smirking-a vague but somewhat discernible timeline? you betcha.-a plot heavy fic? absolutely. this fic's gunna have a lot of moving parts, i hope y'all can keep up. jk i actually just hope i'm able to write it in a comprehensible way. i may have gotten wayyy too into the plot. sorry/not sorry-i said angst right?-our lovely beth as a compartmentalizer, but she’s painstakingly learning why she is the way she is. she’s about to go through a lot, sorry honey.-rio's also gunna go through a lot.-graphic depictions of violence and attempted rape/non-consensual sex! in later chapters. if that’s triggering, or ain’t something you wanna read, totally respect that, just thought i’d warn you now in case you didn’t wanna start reading this fic. will update the tags for the relevant chapters.Voilà! Enjoy to your hearts desire.Title from Young God by Halsey.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 71
Kudos: 113





	1. shattered glass

**Author's Note:**

> -this is going to be a multi-chapter fic and i started this when i finished watching season 2 for the first time. i was initially writing it just for me and cathartic purposes only, but i’ve kind of gotten super into the plot now so … it’s for everyone to enjoy/not enjoy as they wish. 
> 
> -my goal since i started writing it for public consumption was to have it possibly out before season 4? do i still think i can do that? yes. am i lying to myself? also yes.
> 
> -this fic does bounce between Rio and Beth POV quite a bit. am i overdoing it for a newbie writer like myself? probably. would love any feedback, including constructive criticism about it! y’all can hit me up with it in the comments or on Tumblr (same handle).
> 
> -some of these ideas aren’t original, so i just wanna thank this entire fandom for inspiring me :) i will certainly reference fics where i remember i got specific ideas from. if not (sorry), i credit all of you fucking phenomenal creative minds out there - everyone deserves a medal for doing this in their spare time and gracing us all with your work. now that i'm writing with a purpose, i appreciate everybody's work a hell of a lot more knowing how much effort it can take.
> 
> -lastly, a huge and massive thank you to [@gangfriend](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/00gangfriend00) for being my beta, you are an absolute and marvellous peach. please prepare yourself for an onslaught of doubt and anxiety during the writing and release of this fic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rio has dreams, then stops by to check on his investment.  
> Beth is surprised, then goes to therapy.

Rio can’t move. All he can feel is fuckin’ shootin’ pain, jagged and irregular, making its way from his collarbone down his left side, right down to his fingertips.

His eyes jolt open as he attempts to breathe through the pain. 

In. 

_Fuck._

Pause. 

Out. 

_Fuck._

Pause. 

Repeat. 

Every inhale causing his body to spasm, an agonizing reflex to the physiological stress of filling his lungs.

Consciousness trickles in slowly as the pain starts to subside. The dream had started out normal, _good,_ even. 

She had been there, with her stupid socks, looking at him across her room, waiting for him. She had been wearin’ her pearls, the same ones that are currently sitting tucked away next to three disfigured slugs, a torn piece of pop’s baby blanket before Rhea’d fixed it, a polaroid, a school land-yard and a movie ticket; feelings Rio can’t and doesn’t want to be liberated from no matter the cost. He needs the token reminders. The best and worst moments of his life, these items monumental in their significance.

And then the dream had shifted. Sweat wicked silk sheets jarred impossibly against stiff black fabric soaked with tears. The look on her face when he pulled that black bag off her head was mutinous. He caught a flicker of relief before she succumbed to her confusion and anger. Rio turned to show her Turner on the floor when suddenly he heard the shots being fired. Blindin’ fuckin’ pain and the world went black. 

He couldn’t help the infuriating heat that was building - anger shocking his body out of any remaining deliriousness. The pain, subsiding gradually, only left room for comprehension to yank him abruptly back to reality.

Disgust slams into his mind, for feeling anything other than menacing hot rage and betrayal towards Elizabeth.

Seeing red, Rio rubs his face furiously. He gets up and heads to the bathroom in a couple of strides. 

Splashing cold water on his face, he’s grateful for the distraction from the iron hot flashes of the dreamscape circulating in his head. Flashes that are now seeping with memories, memories that are like fluid poison making their way uncontainable through cracks in his fortress. Elizabeth, staring at him across the bar, twirlin’ her hair around her finger. Elizabeth, pointing his own gun at him and bein’ unable to shoot, as he stroked her face. The feel of her leaning into his hand. Elizabeth. He knew her then, enough to know she wouldn’t’a pulled the trigger. But she was always able to surprise him. He was constantly _allowin'_ himself to be surprised by her. And shit - wasn’t that the root of his anger? Allowin’ himself to stay in her orbit, blindfolded and cuffed, even with the abundance of pain she’s caused him?

Refusing to confront the full multitude of conflicting emotions he was feeling, he walks out of the bathroom. He quietly wanders over to where Marcus is sleepin’ soundly, his hand tucked under his cheek. Marcus is the reason he fought so fuckin’ hard to recover and and and... The affection and love Rio feels watching him sleep are disrupted only by the weight he immediately feels as the possibility of not coming back to him one day, of not _being able_ to come back to him settles in. How close he was to leaving him without a father. 

12 days in the hospital. 

14 days locked up with Turner. 

26 days without Marcus. 

Rio shakes his head. That ain’t even the longest he’s been away from pop, but it was sure as shit one of the worst times.

He forces himself to take a deep breath. Absentmindedly, he massages one of the bullet wounds, now healed. Proof of how much of a brutal and ruthless bitch Elizabeth can be. Proof of her ability to leave her mark on him, something he already knew long before she pulled the trigger. But these scars, while healed, are starkly different from the ones that are still fuckin’ raw underneath.

He pulls out his phone to hit up Mick. 

_Update?_

_Workin’._ He responds immediately.

3 am and still working. Probably running the numbers or some shit like research. Rio would swing by tomorrow to take a look at those numbers himself.

 _Good._ He texts back.

Elizabeth was finally learning to listen to orders. He promptly ignores the thought of her alone in the back of that stupid store, sitting at that fuckin’ desk. 

Sure, she had surprised him, she’s always surprisin’ him. 

Spas, yeah. They are actually a good way to wash the cash. But like hell, he’d ever admit that to her. 

Rio had been skeptical and still was, but it ain’t like they got a choice.

At least it’s enough for Alena. For now.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Beth is tired. She hasn’t felt this exhausted since Jane. 

She looks up from the books she’s working on at Boland Bubbles and gazes around at the semi-empty showroom. Even though all the spas had been removed and locked up in storage a few months ago, their stock had been easily replaced, and they’d actually needed to restock a few models many times over. Mick had been surprisingly helpful giving his opinion on which ones he thought would bring in more customers. His opinion, or rather, grunt of approval or shake of the head, had actually informed the majority of her decisions. 

She’d wanted the spas to appeal to many customers, after all.

Now, Boland Bubbles was on its way to already having sold over 120 spas. Thanks to Dean, and _ugh_ , the thought of thanking him for anything business-related makes her cringe, but he _had_ actually managed to convince many of the previous employees to stay on. In addition to a few of Rio’s boys coming on, unbeknownst to Dean, of course, they now had a full team devoted to moving the spas.

Over the past couple of months, the business had been steadily improving, working more and more seamlessly with every new order. This month alone they’d brought in just over one million worth of profits. 

Beth double and triple checks the numbers. She lets a wave of pride gently wash over her. She truly is worked to the bone, and these numbers are proof that it had been worth it. That it is a _good_ system. It _works_.

Ruby and Annie have taken over the printing, while she manages the spas. She put Dean in charge of seeking out new customers, and surprisingly he has been delivering. His ability to attract younger crowds, especially women, finally being put to good use instead of —, Beth rapidly halts her thoughts, a twinge of something like disgust making its way up her throat like bile. 

She knows she’s playing with fire with that one, but well, it wasn’t like she wasn’t walking the narrow veiled line between chaos and order herself. 

Overall, it seems to have been an efficient split of the work, but she knows that they are all working themselves dead tired.

Beth sighs.

Looking at the clock, she stretches her neck. It's 11:58 pm. This was the fourth night in a row she was going to be here past midnight. 

Last night, she had been working until 4 am, wanting to have an idea of the numbers for today’s meet. Hopefully tonight she would be able to get home before 1 am at least.

Expecting either Mick or Dags any minute, she’s glad she has a chance to triple-check the numbers first. Beth is sure that they are watching her around the clock, but just staying out of sight. She doesn’t mind anymore. It doesn’t surprise her anymore how easily she can adjust to the threats against her life. Or rather, she pauses in her thoughts, the _lack_ of threats against her life. Regardless, now, they are giving her space to do what she does before they come to pick up Rio’s cut.

Opening the bottom left drawer, she pulls out the bottle of bourbon she keeps there. She pours a couple of fingers' worth. Downing half of it, she glances down at her phone. Beth has a couple of texts from the girl’s group chat and a message from Dean asking about loading the dishwasher; asking how to start it. Picking up her phone, she unlocks it and pulls up Dean’s message thread, letting out a rough, frustrated exhale.

“Yo.”

Beth’s head snaps up from her phone. She hadn’t so much as heard a squeak of a footstep, and yet she’s not surprised. This man moves with feline stealth and silent fluidity, sometimes it seems like he’s an apparition summoned from god-knows-where by god-knows-who.

Of course.

Leaning against the doorway, Rio’s there; wearing a beanie, black jeans, converse and a dark jacket. 

Her heart skips a beat, he looks _good_. Well, she thinks, not that he doesn’t ever look good. 

Beth internally slaps herself. 

This was the same man who shot Lucy in front of her to make a _statement_. 

How can she still be attracted to him after everything he’s done? After everything she doesn’t know he’s done? Rio’s transgressions aside, her offences against him were enough to incinerate her train of thought right in its tracks.

There’s a shard of something like guilt there, poking itself out of a hazy past. Precariously making itself known as Beth struggles to squash it. 

Her eyes scan his face for any indication of what mood he’s in. 

She blinks, unable to read him. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Came to pick up my cut.” Rio states, annoyance lacing his words. 

Of course.

“It’s in the back.”

“Aight.” Rio pulls out his phone and shoots a text to one of his boys, Beth presumes. He pockets his phone. “How we lookin’?” gesturing to the books.

Beth glances down, wondering how to play this. She shrugs, and settles on, “Could be better.” She’d rather him thinking their numbers were lower and be pleasantly surprised. Or, less unpleasantly surprised.

Rio comes over to her side of the desk, peering over her shoulder. She tenses when she feels him lean down so his breath is right beside her face. Beth can smell him, his own personal aroma of charisma ensconcing her, absolutely overwhelming her senses. She knows he only uses proximity mockingly, but still. She shivers, ashamed of herself for being so responsive to it.

“Show me.”

She opens the binder to the most recent entries. Rio leans forward, concentration written all over his face. Beth turns hers towards him, places her chin on her palm, and watches his expression. His brows are furrowed, his bottom lip jutted out while he reads the handwritten records. If he’s impressed, he doesn’t show it. His eyes dart swiftly down the numbers.

After a couple of minutes of silence, Beth asks, “Well?” feeling triumphant. 

Rio turns his head so he’s looking at her, straight on. Amusement and something else, indecipherable, flash across his features, before being quickly schooled by his mask of indifference and irritation. 

“Could be better.” He says, refusing to give anything away. Beth stiffens, pride immediately replaced with indignation. She opens her mouth but freezes as he moves in even closer.

Suddenly, with his mouth right over her ear, Beth can taste his musk on her tongue. 

The memory of the flavour of his skin overwhelms her; earth, spice and honey coating her mouth. 

“Keep it up, darlin.” He straightens up and then downs the rest of her bourbon. And then he’s striding out the door.

Beth stares after him.

She pours herself another finger worth of bourbon and gulps it down, desperate for the alcohol to burn the memory of him from her taste buds. Beth puts both the glass and the bottle away hastily. 

Well, at least she now knows he’s not pissed at her for the given moment. 

She lets herself bathe a little in that stream of pride once more, allowing it to curl around her for a minute. 

Beth grabs her things to lock up and heads home.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************

Uncomfortably upright on a stiff-backed leather couch, Beth checks her phone and scoffs. Classic. This was exactly on par for Dean-like behaviour. Forcing her, _them,_ to see a couple’s therapist and then not even bothering to show up?

Well, she’s not about to be stuck here, without him. Beth’s just getting up and gathering her things quickly to leave when a door opens down the hall.

A tall, elegantly dressed woman pops out of the door. 

“Hi, Elizabeth? I’m Robin, come on in.”

“Please, call me Beth. Nice to meet you, Robin.” Beth says, gathering up the last of her things from where she was sitting.

Her flight instinct still on high, she forces herself to walk over and through Robin’s door. 

The room itself is a soothing assortment of soft pastels and hues of blue complemented by a dark blue sofa. Plants adorn the office space sporadically, giving it a dynamic and lively feel. At least Robin has good taste, Beth muses.

“Have a seat anywhere you feel comfortable.”

Beth picks a spot on the sofa furthest from what seat appears to belong to Robin. Between the two of them is a glass coffee table, framed in gold. On it lies a notebook, pen, a box of tissues and a pair of glasses.

“Can I get you something to drink? A coffee, tea or water?” She offers, standing by the doorway.

“No, that’s okay, thank you though.” Beth answers, shifting in her seat. The sofa she was sitting on was physically comfortable but it did nothing to quiet the discomfort of not knowing what's coming next.

“Will Dean be joining us?” Robin asks, taking a seat in her chair.

“I reminded him this morning, he must just be running late.” Beth plays with the edge of her shirt nervously.

“Well, since you’re here, why don’t you share with me what brings you in.” Robin says, picking up and opening her notebook.

“Really? I assumed because Dean isn’t here yet we wouldn’t be starting without him.” Beth eyes the notebook.

“I’m happy to wait if you want. Although, anything you share now will help me understand you two as a couple and yourself as an individual.”

“Okay.” 

Beth nods, and Robin motions with her hand to continue. “What made you two decide to seek out someone to talk to?”

“Dean thought that it would be good for our marriage moving forward.” Beth says, the unspoken attempt at conviction wavering.

“And you? What do you think?”

“I agree with my husband.”

Robin nods and writes something down in her notebook. “What is it that you two think you need moving forward from?”

Beth sighs, thinking carefully about how she wants to phrase her next sentence. “We’ve been having challenges with connecting recently, so we both want to find a way to come back together and be on the same page.”

“And what page is that?”

“You don’t ask easy questions, do you?” Beth laughs with a lightheartedness she doesn’t feel.

“It’s not my job to.”

“I think we both want to be there for our children, and the best way to do that is together.”

“What is it that pulled you two apart?”

“Time… money… people.” 

_Respect, bankruptcy and multiple affairs._

“Can you be more specific?” Robin prods. “Sometimes there’s a moment or a specific event that provokes couples to seek out therapy. Was there one for you and Dean?”

_Possibility of divorce._

“I think we both just realized that we are better together. And to stay together in the most healthy way possible for our children, we want to make sure we are on the same page.” Beth says. 

“What does healthy mean to you?” Robin inquires, scratching something in her notebook.

“Well, respect, boundaries and understanding for one.”

“Do you have that now?”

Beth’s phone goes off. “I’m so sorry, I’ll put it on silent,” she says, checking it as she flips the volume button. There’s a text from Dean saying he was sorry, but he has a meeting with a potential buyer that he can’t pass up. Beth shakes her head in disbelief.

“Dean?” Robin asks, gesturing to her phone.

“Yes. He, uh, unfortunately, can’t make it.” Beth bristles at the nod Robin gives her. Needing her to understand, Beth quickly follows up, “he just had a business thing come up.” She picks at her nails.

“Does he do this often?”

“Does he do what?”

“Fail to show up for you?”

Beth lets out an exasperated sigh. “It’s fine, the business is a lot of work. Plus, I’m sure he really tried to make it. He was the one that booked this appointment, anyways.”

“Do you do that often? Justify his actions?”

“It’s easier than the alternative.”

“And what’s that? Holding him accountable?”

There’s a pause, as they hold one another’s gaze. 

Beth just stares at Robin.

“Look Beth, my job is to understand partnerships, but more importantly, what I try to do is help others understand their own partnerships. Learning how to ask for what you need is a large part of that. Dean may not know what you need because you’ve never asked for it.” Beth opens her mouth to dispute this. “I’m not saying it’s entirely your responsibility, but knowing what you need from your marriage with Dean and asking for it plays an important role in having a respectful and understanding partnership.”

Beth furrows her brows. She asks Dean for stuff all the time!

“Can I ask you something?” Robin looks at her inquisitively, in an apprehensive tone.

“Sure, why not.” Beth deadpans.

“Is there someone else?”

Beth snorts derisively. The sheer simplicity of the question juxtaposes the absolute complexity of the answer and it’s just so… tragically ironic.

After a few moments, she composes herself. “What makes you ask that?”

“You haven’t once used words like loyal, faithful, honest or trustworthy when describing Dean and your relationship with him.”

Beth hums in agreement. It’s true, those words aren’t words she’d associate with Dean, but neither are words like respectful and understanding. 

“I just don’t see him as a loyal or faithful partner. I can’t anymore.”

A great wave of sadness crashes into Beth. A bout of longing for their past, and who they were before unexpectedly washing over her. Before everything. Back when life was much more simple. Black and white. Or well, at least, less grey. It seems she exists now in this state of technicolored disorientation, lost.

When had it all changed? It hadn’t happened overnight, that’s for sure. Dean had been there for her when she had desperately needed someone, and for that, she’s immensely grateful. He’d been the one to paint her world into black and white, so she was able to exist in her murky grey with some semblance of structure. Perhaps knowingly, Dean had rebuilt her whole world, piece by piece, gradually altering her perceptions and comprehension of reality.

Now, she sees the world for what it is. Full of colour, yes, but the leadened grey, always present, makes itself known by the weight subtly cushioning her shoulders. When she’d robbed Fine and Frugal, she realized she’d let herself be blinded by his monochromatic world. No, it had been before that. Her carefully arranged universe had crumbled when the staggering landslide of financial truth underneath Dean’s mountain of lies had been unearthed. 

The colours may not have been bright, but they were there. 

Dean, her once saving grace and supportive partner, now can’t even show up for a scotch tape attempt to fix their shattered world.

Beth pulls out her phone and pretends to look at it. “I’m sorry, I think I need to go. My son Kenny needs to be picked up from school, he’s sick.” She gathers up her things.

“Beth?” Robin asks softly.

Beth turns to look at her. 

“Don’t hesitate to book another appointment, even if it's just for yourself. I'm more than happy to discuss your relationship with Dean, or just be someone you can talk to, I do hope I see you again.” Robin’s eyes are kind, crinkling at the sides as she smiles.

“Thank you. Did Dean already e-transfer you?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Of course he didn’t. 

“Okay. I’ll send you the money once I get home, thanks again.” 

Beth hightails it out of the office, and she doesn’t stop to take a breath until she’s back in her car. 

What the fuck was that?

Irritated, she runs her fingers through her hair. 

She’d never really thought about her unseeing dependency on Dean. It had been there, yes, but had that been what had made it inevitably unequal? Had her response always been how high when he demanded she jump? When was the last time he took the plunge for her?

When was the last time she asked Dean for something? 

Something real?

Was their partnership so broken that she’d lost her own voice?

She knew she’d found it again, but … isn’t that what ultimately fractured them? 

Maybe the problem wasn’t losing her voice throughout their marriage but never having one to begin with.

How was Dean supposed to realize this whole time she’d been suffocating herself for his appeasement when she didn’t even know how to cry out for hers? 

_Rio_ had heard her. 

This thought backhands her across the face.

Rio had done nothing but nurture and feed her voice, only to wield it to his advantage.

Not _always._

Knowing this train of thought is leading her into dangerous territory, Beth allows her focus to be pulled to the world in front of her. She stares out the windshield and watches as a family walks past, unaware of her prying eyes. The two kids are in some sort of argument and who, Beth assumes, is one of their caregivers is trying to break it up. Their other caregiver is trailing behind them having a conversation on their phone. 

Kids will always benefit from two caregivers. But together or apart? Right? Would Jane, Emma, Danny and Kenny be better off if she and Dean were separated? 

_Of course not,_ her immediate visceral instinct tells her. 

She thinks back to her and Annie’s childhood. Absent father, dismissive mother. Two parents, that are faking a healthy relationship? That sounds thoroughly and inconceivably preferable. Anything is an improvement over what they had to go through as kids. What _she_ went through.

Beth thinks briefly about Dean’s parents. How years of his own two parents pretending had fundamentally traumatized Dean’s concept of a respectful faithful relationship. 

But _they_ weren’t Dean’s parents. 

And their kids _weren’t_ Dean.

Beth shakes her head as she starts the car. She and Judith were not the same person. A dark past torments and tethers Beth to Dean in a way Judith’s marriage is unburdened by.

 _Ridiculous_ , absolutely ridiculous. Robin doesn’t understand how complicated it is.

Pulling out of the parking lot, she spots the family one last time, one of the caregivers still lagging behind now screaming into their phone. Beth sighs and turns out onto the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -hats off to [@riosnecktattoo](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/riosnecktattoo) for absent-minded scar touching. [thirty pieces of silver](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245840?view_full_work=true) changed my life. sold my soul to this fandom and never looked back.
> 
> -i don’t remember the first fic i read with the idea of saved bullets and pearls as keepsakes, but props to this entire fandom for keeping that dream alive and well.
> 
> -for the couple’s counselling session: i am basing this off of some research and what i know from my own experiences, friends’ experiences and tv shows. not all therapy is the same but for the sake of this fic i need to have the therapist *gently* challenge beth about her relationship with dean in order for her to pick it up and examine it from all angles. not sure if that’s realistic, considering the type of therapy.
> 
> -also goes without saying: therapy! is! good! even for people in healthy relationships! also individual people in general! also any type of activity that encourages introspection in general!
> 
> -anyone like visuals like myself? [here](https://juliabaum.com/therapy-blog/2019/5/6/inspiring-therapy-space)’s a link to a pic of what i based Robin’s space on.  
> 


	2. salt water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth catches up the girls up.  
> Rio meets the boss, then goes for a run because he’s frustrated anD teNsE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -shout out to [@gangfriend](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/00gangfriend00) for your patience with my constant doubt and overthinking, and basically being frustrated with every single sentence in this chapter, you're extraordinary.

“I mean, he could have, like, expressed his gratitude by giving us a day off to recover or something.” Annie says, yawning.

“Yeah, because working for a violent gang leader comes not only with vacation days, but benefits too.” Ruby mutters sarcastically into her wine glass.

“Aren’t we like his only source of income right now? You would think he would want better working conditions. Oh, wait, yeah, I just heard it. Besides, I guess we're sort of past claiming said benefits, what with—” Annie mimics finger guns. 

She gets up to fill her glass of wine.

Beth’s stomach clenches painfully. She can physically feel the crescendoing internal battle between the cacophony of paralysis and the onslaught of her meticulously crammed emotions.

Desperately clutching for distraction, she holds up her empty glass of wine to give to Annie, who takes both glasses over to the kitchen where the bottle sits open on the counter.

“Rio actually came by to check the numbers last week,” Beth admits, attempting to steer their conversation into less blood-filled waters. 

It had been too long since she’d seen Annie and Ruby at the same time, so she may as well let them know together.

“Wait, gangfriend himself came by? Yeesh, what’d you do to piss him off?” Annie asks, yelling from the kitchen.

“Annie, keep your voice down, the kids will wake up!" Beth whisper-shouts back at Annie. "He wasn’t pissed, well not much more of an asshole than usual. And just to be clear, he seemed happy with the numbers.” 

Ruby chimes in under her breath, “is happy an emotion that man can experience?”

“Wait, did you guys bone again!?” 

Judgement in both her tone and face, Annie comes trotting back into the family room with both wine glasses full right up to the brim. 

“What!? Annie! No!” Beth splutters. “He came by to check the numbers and collect his cut,” she says defensively.

“Do you remember the last time he came by to _collect his cut_? He successfully extorted us to the tune of over 85% of our business.” Ruby throws in.

“Nah, not this time, fam. We’re rolling in them Gs, baby!” Annie exclaims, hands Beth her full wine glass carefully, and flops dramatically back onto the couch between the two girls. 

The wine in Annie’s glass sloshes over the side from the momentum, and some of it spills on the couch. Beth glares at Annie.

“You know what we should do? In order to bring in more clients, we gotta _market_ our product.” She shoots up excitedly from her spot on the couch, spilling her wine yet again. Paying no attention to it she says, “You know how we do that? We offer an exclusive opportunity to _try_ our products.” Annie exclaims, wiggling her eyebrows.

“I literally don’t understand what you’re getting at.” Ruby states, exasperatedly.

 _“Deansie’s_ been making a lot of headway on finding potential customers, right?” Annie asks, turning to Beth.

 _At the cost of our marriage, yes._ Out loud, she says, “He had a meeting with one yesterday that he seemed really excited about.” The taste of acid on her tongue makes it hard to school her expression of revulsion. Luckily, neither of the girls notice.

“Let’s have a hot-tub party at Boland Bubbles! We could fill up some of the models! That’s like branding and research, right? Who doesn’t want to take a dip in a hot tub they want to buy, drink in hand?” Annie demands excitedly.

“They’re called spas,” Beth mutters, quietly.

“Wait, is that allowed? That doesn’t sound hygienic.” Ruby interjects, cringing.

“It totally is! Must be, anyway!” Annie says, waving her hand. “They’ve gotta be like, brand new right? We just fill ‘em up, and boom! We got a full-fledged excuse to drink and relax! The more relaxed we look, the more sales we’ll have. God knows we deserve some time to just chill.” Annie rambles on.

“And how do you suggest we fill them up? There are like, no hose spouts _inside_ the building.” Ruby asks.

“Okayyy, well how about we just attach a hose from the _outside of the building_ with one of those extender things.” Annie says, shrugging as she rolls her eyes at the obvious solution. 

Beth, no longer listening to their bickering, twirls her wine glass in her hand. It is a good idea to attract new customers and she supposes that even though things are good now, it’d be helpful to have a couple of extra customers on their contact list and/or sales in the bank. But a party with spas? And alcohol?

An infinitesimal ray of light shines through at this idea, prompting her to remember a moment she’d neatly tucked away in the folded memories she stores at the back of her mind. A black-coat moment of stunned pride, apprehensive frustration and sharp reluctance.

Promptly realizing that she’s imagining sharing a spa with an enigmatic bird of prey and a pair of striking cheekbones, steam and eye contact combining leading to… igniting—, Beth shakes her head, letting Annie’s voice interrupt her thoughts.

“Oh come on, don’t tell me you’re not happy with how well things have been going! Let’s have a we’re-thriving-not-kicking-the-bucket-at-the-hands-of-our-murderous-gangfriend-boss night!” Annie lifts her glass, glaring daggers at the two of them for not doing the same. 

Beth and Ruby exchange a look.

“Fine, I’ll cheers myself then.” Annie mutters, taking a couple of rather large sips of wine.

“Annie, do you know how much work it’s going to take to pull off what you’re suggesting? On top of the work we’re already doing? We might as well just buy a couple of our own spas.” Beth explains to Annie.

“Yeah, babe, it just doesn’t sound realistic or sanitary.” Ruby tacks on, agreeing.

Not to mention a recipe for disaster, Beth thinks.

“You guys are such party poopers!” Annie finishes her wine with a big swallow. “Ok, fine. Take my idea, don’t take my idea but I am getting my paws in a Steamy Boland at some point.” She sets her glass down rather aggressively on the table and gets up from the couch. “Right now, I gotta dip, my Uber’s here. Someone’s gotta make sure Ben’s off his phone by 12.” She rolls her eyes and heads out the door.

Tentatively, Ruby turns to Beth. “How is Dean doing with the spas sales, B?”

Beth swallows. “He seems to be piquing a lot of interest among a certain demographic of customers, which I think is only good for sales in the long run.”

“Where is he, tonight, by the way?”

Beth doesn’t know where he is, and quite frankly, she doesn’t care. She and Dean had gotten into an explosive argument last night after he’d finally come home from his “meeting”. Tipsy, reeking of something saccharine with pink lipstick marks on his collar, Beth had lost it on him. 

What Robin said to her had really stuck in her head, making her feel particularly raw and vulnerable. She suddenly felt the need to prove to herself that she had a voice of her own. Beth was done walking around their relationship in rose-coloured glasses.

She had actually thought the therapy had meant he wanted to attempt to fix them, but it had seemed like he just wanted an excuse for the therapy to fix _her._ While _he_ attempted to get laid.

Assembling her thoughts deliberately, she arranges her emotions in a way that is easily deciphered and neatly organized. “He’s at his mother’s.” Beth lies, carefully not letting her voice break.

“Did you kick him out again?” Nothing but kindness and compassion in Ruby’s voice. 

Beth can feel the tears welling up in her eyes. 

She busies herself with inspecting the spilled wine on the couch, mentally checking to make sure she has soda water, vinegar, and baking soda in the pantry.

“B?” 

“We had an argument last night.” Beth finally concedes. “He cheated on me _again._ ”

Ruby gets up and heads to the bar cart. She grabs the bottle of bourbon there and two glasses. After pouring some in both glasses, she hands one to Beth.

They sit in silence, drinking. Beth leans against Ruby’s shoulder, taking comfort in her velvety soft sweater against her cheek. Ruby’s familiar subtle perfume repaints the sugary sweet scent that had been viscerally embedded in her mind since the night before. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_8 tonight._

Rio exhales through his nose, double-checking the pin Alena had dropped him. Mick gets out of the passenger side, grabbing the bag in the back seat.

Shutting the driver side door, Rio struts over to the loading dock filling each step with confidence. He could see two of her guys standing in front of a door, leading to what he presumes is an office. 

He nods to the two guys, and they step aside allowing him and Mick through.

Alena is sitting at a desk in the middle of the office, currently on the phone. She glances up and sees Rio, nodding at him.

“Perfect, Alek. We need those deliveries now. Make it happen by Saturday.” As Rio and Mick enter, there’s a loud sound of shocked disagreement on the other end of the phone.

“That wasn’t a suggestion. You either do or… well, I don’t think you want to find out.” Alena hangs up. 

“My cut?” She asks, eyeing the bag. The edge in her voice disappears when she addresses Rio and Mick. 

Rio can see the gentle light of the warehouse office bathing her in a soft white glow, her bold and dauntless tattoos taking it upon themselves to define her physical characteristics; highlighting her intense edges.

Mick drops the bag onto the desk in front of her. 

“How much?” Alena opens the bag and starts to count the cash. As she moves, Rio catches a glimpse of her scarred complexion, the evident manifest of history imprinting itself permanently from the underside of her jaw, down her neck, all the way to her collarbone. A word of warning to anyone willing to cross her; that she’s successfully earned her place in her kingdom.

“600 Gs,” Rio affirms, watching her.

Alena counts the cash with swift diligence. Her magnetic grace is attractive, it draws the attention of every eye in the room, including Rio. He remembers the awe and fear he felt when he first crossed her path, now, only a fragment of that fearful reverence, but always present no matter how deeply entrenched their history remained. 

“I’m going to need more than this next month, Reyes.” Alena sighs, looking up at Rio. 

He knows he’s far from clearin’ his debt with Alena, but he also knows they barely pulled this off. Tensing, he keeps his face blank as he asks, “Aight. When?” 

Mick’s eyes flick to Rio.

“Double it. You get two weeks.” Alena says, finally. She zips the bag closed, handing it to one of her guys. Rio nods, turning to leave. “Hang on, I’ve got a question for you.”

Rio tenses again, but nods at her.

“This funny money business, Boland… uh, Bubbles, you say? You think it’s got potential for more?” Alena sits up in her chair, straightening out some papers on her desk.

Rio glances at Mick; he chooses this fuckin’ moment to scratch his nose.

“Yeah,” Rio answers, glaring at her. He wouldn’t’a got into bed with Elizabeth again if he didn’t fuckin’ have to, and now he has to defend the business? Was Alena fuckin’ serious, questioning his decisions? Shit, the irritation he feels is enough to roll his shoulders more forcefully than usual, a twinge of pain spiking in his left.

She eyes him silently and inquiringly, dark brow raised. 

“You sure you can pull this off with…” She gestures to his upper body.

Rio nods, curtly. 

Alena watches him carefully.

After a moment, she glances at Mick and there’s some sort of silent conversation between the two of them.

 _What the fuck?_ His anger flaring in his gut, white-hot, sparks him to say something. And shit - he thought they were past him fuckin’ defending his decisions to her.

Turning back to him, Alena holds up her hand, and he realizes he’s clenched his fists. “You need to keep your head on straight, Reyes. Next time you fuck up, I won’t be as patient or forgiving.”

Vexed, Rio turns on his heel and strides out of the warehouse, rage just about simmering up and over the surface of his cool exterior. He doesn’t even check to make sure Mick is keeping up, he just gets into the driver’s side. Mick hops in a couple of seconds later. 

More aggressively than needed, Rio peels out of the warehouse with an infuriated fervour, only glancing sideways when he’s on the highway. Mick’s eyes are forward, refusing to meet his.

“What?” Rio snarls at him.

Mick grunts. “Nothin’.”

A pause. 

“Mrs. B ain’t gunna get us straight with Alena, man. She don’t even know Mrs. B’s the reason you in debt in the first place.”

Rio’s nostrils flare. Keeping that part from Alena feels fuckin’ impossible. She’s got people everywhere, but Elizabeth is _his_ to handle. Not hers.

“We don’t gotta another choice right now.” He says, refusing to admit Mick’s got a point, the predictable heat that accompanied any mention of Elizabeth rising in Rio’s body.

Mick’s right, yeah. Sure, Elizabeth had done good with the spas, and yeah. 

It _had_ been enough. 

But _now_? 

He knows better than to short Alena, especially with his track record this past year. He sure as shit is going to have to make sure the girls find a way to wash more funny money or at least flip his game.

Mick opens his mouth like he’s gunna disagree, and Rio cuts him off. “She’s worth more alive than she is dead, at least ‘til we flip our game.” 

Mick eyes him with dubiousness, an expected question mark on his face.

The rest of the car ride passes in silence.

Rio, pulling up to his bar, stops abruptly. 

“Right, boss. You want me to hit up Dags to get her to up production tonight? Or swing by the shop tomorrow to tell ‘er crew?” Mick pulls out his phone, assuming he’s gunna be hitting up Dags.

“Nah, I got it. Gotta make sure she gets the message.” Rio smirks at Mick. 

Mick rolls his eyes and hops out of the car. “Later, boss.”

Once back on the road, Rio pinches the bridge of his nose. 

It ain’t like it was unexpected. Alena pulls shit like this all the fuckin’ time. She’s unpredictable, but she never does anything without a reason. The only thing worse than shortin’ her is questioning her decisions.

Rio, sinking down in his exhaustion, shakes his head. 

When did this start to feel like he’s submerged in an overwhelming oceanic abyss, just struggling to swim to the surface? More than that though, he’s fuckin’ frustrated. Pushin’ people under down further, just to prevent himself from drowning? That ain’t something that ever ends well.

This shit ain’t sustainable. 

Hell, he don’t want it to be. 

The past year has cost him so much already; a spleen for one. 

This job ain’t one without costs. Rio knows this better than anyone. 

And he don’t wanna do this forever. 

When he comes home to his empty loft, he’s reminded of just how empty it is without Marcus. These nights are the worst; the ones that are constantly makin’ him think of just how lonely it is at the top. 

He wasn’t lying when he had said that to Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth, sittin’ at that bar. Right before she—

Fuck it, Rio thinks, might as well blow off some steam, chucking his keys, wallet and gun on his bedside table as he strides into his closet. Changing into joggers and sneakers, he can sense the built-up frustration and stress weighing heavy on his shoulders.

He sets the treadmill onto the lowest jogging setting, and shoves in his headphones, hitting shuffle on his music. He times his steps to the beat of the songs. 

After about 20 minutes, he can feel his breath start to catch. The cramping in his chest steadily increasing to an erratic stabbing of pain. And it ain’t the song.

_Never let a wound ruin me_

_But I feel like ruin's wooing me_

_Arrow holes that never close from Cupid on a shooting spree_

_Feeling stupid cause I know it ain't no you and me_

Rio puts his feet on either side of the moving belt, and jabs at the stop button. Nah, it ain’t the song, it’s his fuckin' body. Every sharp inhale, he sees those fuckin’ bullets. Sees Elizabeth. 

Sees Turner. 

Sees the ambulance. 

Sees the operating room. 

Knows he’s different. 

Knows he can’t fuckin’ do what he used to. 

Knows he’s weak.

Breathing ragged, he wipes his face off with his shirt and heads over to grab some water. Well, at least the spasming came a few minutes later than last time. 

Fuck, this ain’t normal. He’s been fuckin’ shot before, for fuck’s sake. But not in the chest, and not by someone who—nah. 

Physical recoveries ain’t new to him. He positions himself in front of the punching bag.

He recalls the unbearable ache of his shoulder during the football season in Dearborn. The sixth time it had dislocated. The stirring memory of strong dexterous hands massaging his recuperating muscles with purpose bubbles up without warning.

Rio starts to attack the punching bag in a frenzy. 

_Chris, baby. Tell me where it hurts._

He continues to punch until his knuckles are bloody and bruised, the pressure building in his lungs uncontainable. Rio can feel the searing twinges in his shoulder now too, and he knows he’s pushing it.

He slows down, pausing to lean against the bag. Panting, he gulps some water down. 

Taking his time stretching, he focuses on his left arm and shoulder. The muscles murmur their thanks and the pain slowly subsides. 

Rio lowers himself down, gracefully elongating is his lean frame so it runs parallel to the floor. Lying on his back, holding his stomach, he starts to breathe in with careful and deliberate resolve. 

He’s practicing his breathing exercises designed to re-increase his lung capacity. 

It’s been months now, but he wishes the surgery could have been less invasive. Wishes it had damaged less of his lung. 

The shoulder’s one thing, but add in the spleen removal and an invasive lung surgery? 

Forcing his body to steadily relax, he slowly lets his breaths become stronger, deeper. As his muscles unclench one by one, his mind goes blank.

After five minutes of mindless meditation, he heads to his bathroom to turn on the shower. Once the bathroom was filled with steam, he steps into the shower, naked.

Rio lets the hot water pelt down and he feels his muscles let go of any leftover tautness. He takes a couple of deep breaths, inhaling the humid air, letting his lungs expand as far as they can go. 

He lathers soap over his right arm and shoulder, his left shoulder aching significantly less than before. 

Rio watches sweat and discomfort circling down the drain.

_I wanna make you feel better._

He can see Isabella in his mind’s eye drop to her knees, the water making her eyelashes sparkle, lust and steam swirling around the both of them. 

He starts stroking himself, remembering the way it felt to have her index finger slowly trace the seam down the underside of his shaft. She always loved to tease him, to see how desperate he would get for her. Lightly grazing his length with a nail, she had the ability to make him quiver; every nerve on fire with yearning, something he’s only ever experienced with one other person. Something’s he’s only _allowed_ himself experience with one other person.

Imagining the way Isabella would wrap her hands around the base of his cock, tickling his balls slightly with her other hand, Rio lets out a husky exhale.

He can see how her tongue would dart out and lick his slit. Running her mouth up his entire length, gently switching between kissing and moistening the tip, before taking as much of him as she could in her mouth. 

She would swirl her tongue around the tip, stroking the bottom of his cock at varying paces, driving him utterly crazy. He imagines the way she would sometimes unexpectedly let her teeth skim around him, the sensation only adding to his absolute pleasure.

Rio’s eyes flutter shut as he speeds up his own movements. 

His precum spurts out, only contributing to his urgency. He imagines the raspy moans Isabella used to make when Rio’d let out a guttural groan, bottoming out at the back of her throat. 

He experiences an intensifying throbbing, his exhausted muscles tensing in anticipation. 

Rio’s strokes become increasingly irregular, and he knows he’s close to his peak. He lets his head fall back, the hot water droplets on his face only complimenting the feeling of excitement and release he’s about to surrender to.

Abruptly, and out of fuckin’ nowhere, Isabella’s extinct moans become quiet whimpers from a much more recent past. 

Fierce black hair morphs suddenly into delicate strawberry blonde curls.

Before Rio can stop himself, he’s coming apart to the thought of Elizabeth, her piercing blue eyes dancing with desire as he empties himself into the thought of her mouth.

Rio leans against the shower wall, his bliss brutally violated by a false phantom of a memory. He takes a moment to regain his focus, breathing hard.

His thoughts gathered, he steps out of the shower, livid. After furiously towelling himself off, he grabs some sweats and heads over to his bed.

As he tosses and turns, all he can think of is Elizabeth’s mouth on him. 

It ain’t even something they’d done, but now she’s all he can think about.

Her frantic mewls every time he’d pulled out, only for him to come back with an urgency and desperation that made them both sigh with relief. 

The harsh gentleness of her mouth locked on his, her soft hands lightly stroking his spine, in a way that makes him shiver even now, remembering it.

The intimacy they’d shared. 

Nah.

Rio rubs his eyes, incensed that his thoughts had circled back to her. 

Rolling over, he falls into a fitful sleep. 

That night, his dreams are fraught with colours of blue and yellow, soft curls and whispered broken promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Alena is based off the beauty Emeraude Toubia.
> 
> -shower Rio was 100% inspired by [Ain’t No Sunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26443219). [@MissMaxime](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/missmaxime) you upended my reality of canon with that absolutely phenomenal piece and now i truly believe that’s what happened in the show and no one can tell me any different.
> 
> -yes, I shamelessly took Manny’s shoulder injuries and incorporated that into this story. sorry Manny, your pain is/was real, Rio’s is fictional. 
> 
> -i am headcanoning that Rio had to get his spleen removed. according to my sister (medical background), someone shot in their spleen is actually one of the worst gunshots you can get (besides heart, and *some* gunshots to the lungs) because 1) the spleen has a shit ton of blood vessels running through it (who knew?) and 2) it’s real close to the intestines. any gunshots hit below the nipple line is assumed to have perforated the intestines (aka massive bacteria and shit everywhere, internally) which can lead to massive internal infection and blargh just gross and nasty consequences in general. assuming he didn’t bleed out on the way to the hospital (again, extremely unlikely, but it’s fic!) AND if none of the intestines were hit, most medical practitioners would have removed the damaged organ; turns out spleen removal surgery is actually quite common. i found this (sort of) plausible since Rio _has_ the bullets in canon and normally they wouldn’t have removed them unless there were extenuating circumstances. the lung surgery and spleen removal explains 2/3 of the extracted bullets in the show. the reason Rio has the third bullet will also be revealed later in the story. the recovery/consequences of the spleen removal will be discussed in future chapters. do y'all appreciate my dedication to the plot in this fic yet?
> 
> -Battle Scars by Lupe Fiasco and Guy Sebastian fuCkEd mE uP after 2.13/season 3 😭


	3. knotted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rio makes a demand.  
> Beth goes to a bar, and meets up with the girls. Therapy session #2.
> 
> Some loose ends are tied up, while a few others are unraveled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -thank you to the lovely [@gangfriend](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/00gangfriend00) for your continued help with rounding out some of the edges of this fic and your amazing advice and encouragement with this chapter.
> 
> -tw (better safe than sorry): Lucy's death is discussed in this chapter. notes at the end address it a bit more.
> 
> -i! made! moodboards! for my original characters! yay! wanna see? mild spoilers? maybe  
> [Original Characters](https://whiskeyjack.tumblr.com/post/641192579654926336/aaaaaannnnd-chapter-3-is-here-please-forgive-me)

Pretending to check out some shit like the jets, Rio leans over the most expensive and fuckin’ bougie spa he’s ever seen. He honestly can’t believe people would pay over 50Gs for a fuckin’ spa. 

Smirkin’, he remembers Mick sitting in his brand new spa, christening it with a beer in hand; the last time Rio’d been invited to one of his fuckin’ strange get-togethers. Mick had been going on and on about the benefits of the jets for hydrotherapy or some shit like that; something Rio neither knew nor cared about.

He glances around.

Rio can immediately recognize when Elizabeth spots him, her posture instantly becoming stiff, from where she’s chatting to a customer. She starts shootin’ daggers at him and Rio swallows his grin. 

She was too easy to rile up.

The predictable unidentifiable itching starts creepin’ up his spine, the muscles tensing of their own accord. Somethin’ like hatred, frustration and restlessness wrapped into one colossal knotted mess he can’t untangle. Rio can still feel his shoulder from last night, and wincing, he thinks he probably shouldn’t’a pushed himself like that. 

Elizabeth storms over to where he is leaning, his hands crossed in front of his body comfortably. 

Especially after last night, he stokes the flames of his hatred and anger, letting them kindle. He clenches his jaw aggressively, composing his expression. Rio puts his well-practiced mask in place, careful not to give her anything. 

She seems to sense somethin’ though cause Rio can see her walls instantly snapping up, her face mirroring his blank slate. Stopping in front of him, he clocks her pushing her hip out like it’s meant to intimidate him or some shit like that. 

Please. 

Rio scoffs.

“What do you want?” She asks, the only hint of trepidation in her question the flush that’s creeping up her chest. 

His eyes drag down the flush, eyeing the rest of her body. She’s wearing one of those floral shirts she’s always got on, one that makes something in him twitch. 

Reddening, her chest starts to heave, only pronouncing her shape under the delicately buttoned-up shirt. 

Almost as if his gaze was burning her skin.

Rio’s immediately taken back to the taste of her exquisitely heated flush, the faintly floral taste of her regal skin. He’s never tasted anything so perfect; wanting nothing other than to savour its intoxicating potency. 

Then, as if the ghost of a flesh memory wasn’t enough, he recalls the fantasy of her tongue against him last night. Her, taking everything and anything he gave her.

The impatient clicks of her real, unimaginary tongue whip him out of these thoughts.

“Yeah, imma need you to do better. Double by the end of the month,” he snarls at her, deliberately making his voice vicious.

Elizabeth gawks at him. “What? Why?” 

Her outraged incredulity emanates off her in waves. Rio just stares at her impassively, determined to convey how much he don’t give a fuck about her questions. He gives her a hostile look. 

“Nah, we ain’t doing this. Stay in your lil’ lane, yeah?” He answers, turning to leave. 

He puts his hands in his pockets, grimacing at the pain from the bruises on his knuckles from the night before.

His grimace doesn’t go unnoticed. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Elizabeth catch it, glancing down at his hands now halfway tucked away. She moves almost like she was about to reach out, but she immediately stops herself. 

Furrowing his brows at _that_ , he continues moving to the door.

“No.”

The fuck? 

Rio turns back to look at her, eyebrows raised.

Elizabeth crosses her arms across her chest, in an attempt to challenge his request. “You can’t ask for that kind of product increase, that’s impossible. That's—”

Rio don't wanna hear any excuses, so he cuts her off saying, “You don’t get a say in this, remember?”

She just stares at him, eyes wide. A lot of things flash across her face, most of ‘em too quick for Rio to catch. He does catch the flare of something, followed by an eventual acquiescence.

She nods, lamenting. 

Rio blinks slowly, taken aback by her concession.

“What changed? You said we were good.” The words come out of her mouth before it seems she can stop them, based on the sudden flash of surprise in her expression at her own words.

Rio remembers vividly the night Mick had come up to him, a worried apprehensive expression on his face.

 _What?_ Rio’d asked. 

_Mrs. B seems to have hired someone with ‘er cut,_ Mick had said, not meeting his eyes. 

_What’s that to me?_

_He’s a sniper, goes by the name of Fitz?_

Rio had just grinned. He ain’t surprised Elizabeth had tried to pull something like this. Anything to wash her hands clean of that girl’s death.

Mick had watched him, eyebrows raised, startled with that reaction. 

_What?_ Rio had asked him, slightly annoyed.

_I just thought you’d be… pissed?_

_Nah, man. She hired him, right? All we gotta do is flip him._

Mick had nodded, catching on. _So he’s gunna kill Mrs. B, then? That way we don’t got a hand in it._

_Nah. We’ll pay him to do the job._

Silence. 

Mick had just stared, unblinkingly at Rio.

After about ten fuckin’ long seconds Mick had asked, _To shoot you?_

Rio just had shaken his head, exasperatedly. Mick hadn’t understood. This had been a perfect opportunity to test Elizabeth’s loyalty to him.

Now, Rio decides to say, “We’ll never be good, darlin’,” quirking his lips. A part of him loves that she had the audacity to try and pull something like that behind his back. 

The embers flicker, almost indiscernible.

Spinning on his heel, he briefly sees Elizabeth open her mouth. Refusing to give her the last word, Rio swaggers towards the door.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Bourbon on the rocks, please, and make it a double.” 

The bartender nods, going to make her drink.

Pulling out her phone, Beth sees 17 missed texts from the group chat. The kiddie pool seems to have popped somehow, and Annie is contributing photos of her recommendations for the replacement. Beth sends them a thumbs-up emoji.

Returning, the bartender places her drink in front of her. Beth nods at her, grateful. 

While taking a big sip from the glass, her phone lights up. 

_Where you at, B?_ Ruby texts the chat.

_Roxy’s._

_Alone??_ Annie says.

_Long day. Wanna join?_

She doesn’t feel like elaborating over the chat, knowing that their onslaught of questions would be less exhausting if answered by talking, not typing.

The chat lights up with different emoji-formed affirmatives from both parties. Relaxing, she takes another sip of her bourbon.

Beth lets the emotion she’s been repressing wash over her; the sheer panic she’d been anticipating not making itself known. 

She’s anxious, however, so she takes a couple of deep breaths, allowing them to calm her and push her brain into production. 

Beth attempts to comb through the mess of disquiet and tension. The pressure of doubling their sales is a difficult one, yes, but not impossible. They are already printing three-quarters of what they need to meet Rio’s demanded numbers. The girls would have less work than her. 

For once, she’s clear-headed. She’ll tell the girls, and the three of them will come up with a solution, like always. Rio knows she can be successful when he pushes her, so here she is being pushed. 

It’s fine. 

They can do this.

Lost in thought, Beth barely notices a stranger walking up to her spot in the bar.

“This seat empty?”

Beth looks up from her phone. The man asking is looking at her curiously, gesturing to the empty stool beside her.

He’s very handsome, tall with dark features, scruff and cheekbones that reminds her of—. Nope. 

This man’s stark blue eyes only complimented his outfit; silk striped navy necktie, tailored dress shirt and expensive-looking suit, tie-clip and cufflinks subtle suggestions of someone with money lining their pockets.

She smiles politely at him, making a non-committal movement with her head.

“My name’s Gabriel.” He returns her smile, a couple of dimples appearing on his face. “And you are?” 

A bright set of perfectly straight teeth catch her off-guard.

Sliding into the stool next to Beth, Gabriel makes it look like he’s adjusting his seat, but Beth can tell he just uses the excuse to move the stool closer to her. His eyes twinkle as he looks up through his lashes at her, caught.

The bartender comes up to Gabriel, and he turns to her. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.” She nods.

He turns back to Beth, a question in his eyes.

“Beth.”

“And, Beth, what are you doing here on a night like this?” 

“I’m actually meeting a couple of friends here. Long day at work.”

“Hard-ass boss?” Gabriel says, jokingly.

“You have no idea.”

“What do you do for work?"

“I’m in the business of private and commercial spas.”

“Wait, you sell hot tubs??” Gabriel asks, amusement and what seemed like genuine surprise in his voice.

A bourbon is placed in front of him, and he gestures his thanks with an incline of his chiselled jaw. He lifts the crystal tumbler to his mouth, gracefully swallowing the spirit.

“We call them spas, but yes. We actually offer one of the biggest varieties in Detroit at wholesale and discounted prices, both to commercial contractors and individuals alike.” Beth responds, disdain clear in her voice.

“I’m actually in the market for a few _spas._ ” He shoots her a teasing smile. Gabriel fingers the rim of his glass pensively. “I’m looking for a wholesaler since I need about twenty hot-tubs for some condos I’m investing in.” He says, sincerely.

Beth eyes him suspiciously. Is he serious?

He’s presenting her with an answer to her recent Rio-sized financial _obstacle._

It also almost seems too good to be true. Rio had asked for a much bigger cut, and this deal provides her with a solution. Or well, part of one.

“Do you offer luxury spas?” Gabriel asks, his intense blue eyes meeting her azure ones.

“We do have one luxury option, but if you’re serious, I’d be happy to do some research for you if you’re looking for specific features.”

“Deadly.” He says, playfully, but there was something dark and solemn flickering behind the word. Beth shakes her head, thinking she’d imagined it.

After taking a generous swig of his bourbon, he smirks mischievously. “There is a catch though. I need to be able to try out the options before I invest; just to make sure I’m well informed on the _spas._ ” Gabriel says, interest sparkling in his eyes. 

Giggling nervously, Beth says, “I can try my best to arrange that. We do have our luxury model in our showroom, _empty,_ but if you want to come to check it out in person, or if you have specific features in mind, we can set up a meeting or a phone call.”

She spots Annie and Ruby. “Oh, that’s my sister and best friend,” motioning to the two women who had just entered the bar.

Gabriel’s face falls, a bit of disappointment etched in the lines of his smile. He straightens up, grabs his wallet and pulls out a couple of large bills and his card. Handing the latter to Beth, Gabriel puts his other hand on her shoulder and squeezes lightly. “Perfect. Here’s my number. I look forward to setting up that catch, Beth.”

She can see Annie smirking and muttering something to Ruby; who is watching her with her eyebrows raised as they approach the bar. 

“Okay.” Beth gives Gabriel her most dazzling and customer-service friendly voice. “I’ll give you a call some time this week.” 

Beth turns to give the girls an unimpressed look, as Gabriel heads out.

“Um, who was _that?_ ” Annie says, chucking her purse over a stool. She jumps up onto the stool Gabriel had just vacated.

“Just a potential customer, he’s really interested in our luxury spas.” Beth answers, lightly.

“He looked really interested in something, for sure. But that looked a lot more like an attempt to get into your pants, babe.” Ruby signals the bartender as she talks, making herself comfortable on the stool on the other side of Beth.

“Yes, sis, you should go for it! God knows you need a good dicking since—.” Annie cutting herself off with a severe look from Ruby.

Beth flinches. 

It takes a couple of swigs of bourbon to lose the pang that accompanies Annie’s words.

“Okay, you guys I have to tell you something.” Beth blurts out. 

Ruby and Annie both turn to look at her.

“Bitch, if you tell us you did _something_ , I’m not going to speak to you for a month.” Ruby holds up her hand, stopping Beth from further explaining as the bartender approaches with their drink choices.

“Rio came by Boland Bubbles today, and we need to double his cut by the end of the month.”

Silently taking the gin and tonic the bartender had placed in front of her, Ruby takes two sizeable sips of the drink.

Annie takes her shot of tequila and downs it.

“Excuse me?” Ruby asks, appalled.

“Look, it’s not like I didn’t try to protest or ask why. He was all ‘stay in your lane’ and ‘you don’t get to ask questions, remember?’” Beth takes a sip of her bourbon, the smooth alcohol heatedly flowing through her veins. “Look, I was thinking about this before I met this Gabriel guy. We’re already printing most of what we need, we just need to up it a bit.”

“A _bit?_ ” Ruby vehemently exclaims.

“Are you saying that you want us to use the fake cash we’ve been saving for emergencies?” Annie demands, desperation clear in her tone. She signals the bartender for a second shot.

Ruby turns to Annie. “I’m sorry, do you want to short that man a _fifth_ time?”

“Wait, how many times _have_ we shorted him?” Annie tilts her head, trying to remember. 

“Who is this shady guy? Gabriel? How does he fit into this?” Ruby interjects.

“He said he’s an investor, and he’s interested in buying at least twenty of our luxury spas for his most recent condo investment. The luxury spas are literally our biggest source of profit. We sold five last month and it was over a quarter of the cut. Plus, I’ve been thinking, if we do this spa night, we can market it as an auction or something, attracting different customers and philanthropists if we want.”

Annie, who clearly had given up trying to figure out how many times they’ve shorted Rio, takes the second shot and shouts, “Yes!”

“We’re going to have to wash and use a portion of our savings on this, Annie.” Beth relents.

“Pfft.” Annie gestures, nonchalantly.

“As long as we’re not wasting it on a hitman paying him to _not_ shoot.” Ruby looks pointedly at Beth. 

About six weeks ago, when Beth had been just starting to get a grip on their legitimate illegitimate operation, she’d woken up from one of the worst nightmares she’d had in a long time. 

Which is saying something, considering the nightmares she’d had from— _before._

She’d been sitting in the park chatting with Rhea; Marcus and Jane innocently playing a game of tag not too far away. 

Rhea had asked her about Jane missing soccer practice. 

Beth had made up some excuse about Dean not being available to bring her. 

And then, like a fog clearing, Rhea had turned to her, saying casually, “imagine how many soccer practices Marcus would have had to miss.” 

Rhea had met her eyes then, unspoken tormented betrayal flaring between the both of them.

Beth had woken up in a state of feverish dread. Heart racing a million miles a minute, she’d texted Fitz a demand to stop the job. 

He had tracked her down, ambushing her at the park the next day, demanding 100Gs just to _not_ finish the job. They had to pay him all of the money they’d made up until that point, including their savings.

She had come home that night to find all of her belongings and furniture replaced and put back in the house as if they had never left. 

There had been a brand new bottle of bourbon placed neatly on her returned empty bar cart.

After a couple of glasses, she had worked up the nerve to send Rio a text.

_Why?_

_Incentive, the good kind. Be good, yeah?_

After the ripple effects of the shock had worn off, she’d started thinking. Rio had never done anything without a goal. Of course, this hadn’t been just a gesture of good faith. It was too close to be a coincidence, right? The night she’d cancelled the hit she’d gotten her furniture back? 

That would mean—no.

Beth’s blood had gone frigid.

Rio had known.

About Fitz.

The entire time. 

A few puzzle pieces slot into place. Why he had showed up at her house _that_ day at _that_ time, cutting her out. 

But. 

Why? 

Why had he let her go through with it? Surely trying to get him killed _again_ would have earned her a bullet. Surely. 

The more she had thought about it though, the more she realized that since Lucy, he hadn’t _actually_ threatened their lives again. This realization had stunned her.

Still does.

The whiplash of this man’s trigger-happy emotions are paralyzing to say the least. 

“Okay, so let’s say this Gabriel guy can be our knight in slim-fitted designer armour for like, a second. Would we see that money from the buy in time for gangfriend’s deadline?” Annie’s voice snaps Beth back to reality.

“He gave me his card, so when I call him I can tell him that a deposit is necessary, especially if we have to purchase spas from another establishment. Plus we don’t know how much we’ll make from this auction night.”

“Doesn’t this auction night seem a little shady?” Ruby questions, looking between the two sisters.

Beth cocks her head sideways thinking. It may, especially with it being short notice, but what choice did they have? 

_There’s always a choice._

“I don’t think we really have a choice, right now.”

Ruby scrunches up her nose at the prospect of shared spas, while Annie whoops gleefully.

“If you say so, B, but let’s just be careful okay?” Ruby says in an uneasy undertone.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************

_Is there someone else?_

The question had been circulating Beth’s head since Robin had asked her.

How can she possibly put into words the true depth of Dean’s disloyalty to her?

She had chosen him for their twenty-something years, over and over again, and somehow… he—hadn’t, at least for the last five years of their marriage. She’d never questioned her decision to blindly follow him in life since he had given hers a direction when she’d been lost. But it seems somewhere along the way, her understanding of reality had wandered off on its own.

To the point where she simply was unfazed?

Her sheer _lack_ of concern is enough to stop her thoughts. Their relationship has been traumatized by his actions, yes, but she’s not utterly free of guilt herself. She and Dean are like two shards of broken glass, once fitting together to form a whole, now having been weathered by the sea, the tumultuous waves and impact ebbing their sides, so much so that they no longer even recognize themselves as once being two parts of a unit. 

Not to mention the moment where he had been so convinced that _she_ had chosen someone else outside of their marriage, and _then_ acted like she had been the one responsible for its destruction? Did _he_ not see the hypocrisy in that?

So here she was. 

Back at Robin’s. 

Without Dean.

Beth was desperately apprehensive about what to say to Robin; who was currently observing her get comfortable in the same spot on the velvety sofa with her shrewd gaze.

“How are you today, Beth?” Robin asks, kindly.

Beth gives her a non-committal shrug. She can’t even attempt to put into words how overwrought she's feeling.

“I’m glad you decided to come back.” Tilting her head, Robin asks, “Is there something that made you decide to come back?”

Beth scoffs. “You said something, the other week, that I just can’t get out of my head.”

“What was that?”

“I think the part where you brought up how everyone has a role in their partnerships and neglecting that role struck a chord with me, significantly. I think over the years Dean and I have both been ships passing in the night, attempting to prevent ripples, moving so silently and carefully that we’ve become two entirely separate people, not even able to catch sight of the other.”

“How so?”

“I don’t even recognize him anymore.”

“Do you think he feels the same way about you?”

“Oh most definitely, he’s told me many times he wants me to ‘go back to being his Bethie’.”

“And do you?”

“God, no. _Bethie_ didn’t have a voice. _Bethie_ was oblivious.” _Bethie_ indirectly cost someone their life.

“Oblivious to what?”

Beth looks down at her hands, clamped down and tightly gripped on her thighs. Her brows furrowing, she experiences the flush of grief and shame creeping up her chest. Anguish securely braided with guilt; a suffocating noose tightening around her neck. 

“Beth?”

A single tear makes its way down her face. Beth wipes it away hastily.

“I’m sorry, it’s just hard to talk about it.”

Robin silently offers her the box of tissues that had been sitting on the table between them, a sympathetic expression on her face. 

“What part is upsetting you the most?”

Any of Dean’s affairs seem hysterically comical in the face of the lives at stake. 

In the face of the life that _had been_ at stake.

Beth tries to derail her thoughts violently. 

She coughs, aggressively, hoping the movement will clear some of the dense swirls of agony clouding her mind. 

She inhales, allowing the fresh intake of breath to reset her thoughts.

“Dean and I have known each other for over twenty-two years and been together for twenty-one of those years. He’s been there for me when no one else has. Truly. We had—, _I_ had some trauma from my childhood, and he was unknowingly my rock. _God_ , I mean, Annie; my sister, doesn’t even know what happened. Based on how our history has shaped our partnership, I feel like I should care more about the affairs, but I don’t. I just don’t want to.”

“What do you mean?”

Beth pauses, shaking her head in emotional exhaustion. “I think I care more about gluing the other wrecked parts of my life back together.”

“And what other parts are those?”

“For one, making sure the business stays up and running in its first year off the ground; we recently bought out and took over a spa store. I’d never realized the true amount of ruin our accounts were in until too late.” Beth pauses, irked, and sniffs. “Now that we’ve successfully turned a profit we’re in a _much_ better place.” 

Or well, they were.

At least her and Rio _were_ doing slightly better until he decided to drop this impossible task on their laps.

“What do you mean by that?” 

Beth’s head jerks. She realizes Robin had probably interpreted her “we” as her and Dean when she inadvertently had been referring to her and Rio.

Rio.

Her business _partner._

Who’d just demanded an inconceivable task.

Who _she’d_ tried and failed to kill. Multiple times.

Who’d killed—

Letting out a tortured sigh, she rubs her palms on her jeans. She breathes in.

Beth plasters a smile on her face.

“Financially, _Dean and I_ are in a better place.” Well. Beth is. At least. She adds, “it definitely provides me with a considerable source of relief knowing I can provide for my children.”

“I’ve noticed you switch between ‘I’ and ‘we’ quite a bit. This business that you and Dean run, how does your business partnership affect your personal one?”

Beth’s face scrunches with derisiveness. “I mean, I think that’s the root of the problem or at least one of them. Dean thinks that they’re the same. He needs to be the one making the decisions regardless of the relationship.”

“And does he?”

 _He certainly thinks he is._ The edges of the corner of her mouth quirk up.

“What went through your mind just now?” Robin asks, perceptively, not missing a beat.

Beth stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“Beth, this doesn’t work if you deflect. There’s something that you’re holding back.”

“I think that I’ve learned that Dean doesn’t want me to have my own voice, so I _act_ like I don’t have one half of the time. Especially with business decisions. So a way of me having my own voice in our partnership is letting him believe I don’t have one.”

“And do you see a problem with that?”

Cocking her head to the side, Beth contemplates Robin. “In what way?”

“Do you see how you may be hurting yourself and your relationship in an attempt to pacify your differences?”

Beth opens her mouth, but Robin continues.

“It’s _okay_ to have differences. Relationships have their challenges; no individual person is identical. Everyone has and is entitled to their own understanding of how and what they value and find meaning in life. There are bound to be discrepancies between any two people, but how we approach and mediate them determines the longevity and depth of the partnership. Anyone can make any partnership work, but it’s entirely reliant on how _authentic_ individuals are with one another. With you and Dean, at least in your business partnership, it sounds like you are being inauthentic with him, and therefore, harming yourself and your relationship to reconcile his _idea_ of you with who you _actually_ are.”

God, and if she and Dean had been authentic and _real_ with each other, would Lucy be alive? If Dean had listened to her, would Lucy be alive? If Dean had chosen her, would Lucy be alive?

God, Lucy. That’s what it all comes down to, right?

Lucy.

_Rio._

Dean.

_Lucy._

No. She can’t think about Lucy. 

Not here. Not now.

“Have there been times when you _have_ felt that you are truly authentic with him?” Robin’s question brings her out of her distressing reverie.

“When I told him to leave.” 

Robin nodding, asks, “And when was this?”

“A week ago, after our first appointment.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What made you decide to tell him to leave?”

“When he screwed yet another nail into the coffin of our marriage.”

Robin takes off her glasses. She regards Beth, who is shaking with anger and unspilled tears. 

“I told him to get out. I told him I don’t care where he goes, but the only role he’s going to have in my life moving forward is as our children’s father. He doesn’t get to make decisions for me, let alone our children and the ones he’s made for himself continue to be outright despicable.”

A pause.

“This is good, Beth. I think you’ve had quite the breakthrough.”

Beth lets out a humourless laugh. “Aren’t you a couple’s counsellor? Shouldn’t you be encouraging ways for Dean and I to reconnect?”

“Do you want me to do that?”

“No.”

“When you came in last week, I got the impression that you weren’t here of your own accord. There’s only so much I can do for people in partnerships that either or neither of them wants to be a part of. It sounds like Dean actively chooses to neglect and dismiss his partnership with you through his actions, and in doing so he’s expressing who and what he values.”

Pride.

His belief that he is right. 

Gambling a young woman’s life.

Unaware, yes, but all the same. Distrusting of Beth and her ability to provide, all for some twisted egotistical attempt to prove she and Dean were the same.

But Dean’d lost. They’d lost. Lucy’d lost. Lucy’d lost her life.

No. Not here. Not now.

“I take my job seriously. The root of my job is to get people in partnerships to acknowledge their partners in an authentic way. I would say you’ve just done that, in a very real way. You’ve peeled back to the layers of your and Dean’s relationship, and if you don’t want to be with him anymore, I’m not here to force anyone to be with someone they don’t want to be with. I’m here to discuss you, and your needs, and if Dean was here, his needs too, but he’s not here. So, if you don’t want to try and heal your relationship with him; a feeling that sounds like it’s been building for a while, I’m not going to push you to live your life any differently than the way that you choose to.

"Woman to woman, Beth, our voices are silenced enough as a consequence of the world we live in, whether we like it or not. If I can get people to use their honest voices in outspoken ways, I will happily die on that hill, even if it goes against what people believe my practice is about.

“Was there something that challenged the way you viewed your marriage recently? Or was it gradually building over time?” Robin asks, scrutinizing Beth.

“I—” Beth starts, but falters. 

Was it building over time? 

Or was it the forceful reckoning of a young girl’s _death_ that had ignited her to action?

She tries to gather her feelings. Like trying to capture water in her hands, they just flow through saturating her thoughts uncontrollably.

Beth can’t talk about it with Ruby and Annie especially now, not after how Dean’s actions have directly contributed to Lucy’s death. 

_God,_ Lucy _died._

Ceased to exist.

No.

She was _killed._

By Rio.

By Dean.

By Beth.

She can’t justify Lucy’s death. 

She can’t justify Rio’s either, however short-lived that was.

She can’t even justify Trysten’s. 

Beth’s no stranger to death at her hands now, but it never becomes any more digestible. God, that’s why all of these traumatic moments in her life have remained profoundly buried. Otherwise, she’d just remain scattered, shattered, and desperately grabbing for some tether to ground her all the time. Like she is now. Trying to understand.

But.

Beth knows _why_ Rio had to do it. 

She does. 

She also knows it was awful, gut-twisting, cruel and ruthless.

Beth knows she fucked up. 

Monumentally.

But she knows that it wasn’t _just_ about her.

Or Rio.

God—if she had just _known,_ well not known, but _acknowledged_ her and Dean’s issues she wouldn’t have had to precariously put Lucy’s life in his hands. Or at least, somewhere where his hands had had access to.

“Beth, are you okay?”

Not realizing, tears had been streaming down her face silently. 

Beth gasps for air, air that doesn’t come. The hyperventilating starting to make her feel dizzy.

Her chest seizing, Beth can start to see spots blurring her vision. Standing up, she fans her face, hoping and desperately searching for any source of oxygen.

“Beth?” Robin’s voice, getting further away, becoming increasingly more concerned.

Beth just shakes her head. The sheen of cold sweat at the back of her neck contrasts dramatically with the numbness in her extremities.

Robin gets up and comes around so she’s standing in front of Beth.

“Okay, Beth, I need you to look at me. You are having a panic attack, okay? We’re going to breathe together.”

Eyes wide, she nods. Robin sits her down on the floor, back against the wall. She goes to her desk.

Still searching for air, Beth feels incredibly light-headed, unable to focus. 

“Okay, here’s a paper bag. I’m going to need you to purse your lips like this,” she shows her with her lips, “if it helps, you can pretend you’re breathing through a straw. Good, now just concentrate on breathing out, 1, 2, 3, and inhale, 1, 2, 3, excellent. Now exhale.”

Beth breathes in, 1, 2, 3. And out, 1, 2, 3. 

The spots in her vision slowly start to dissipate. The stiff knots of the cord wrapped around her chest slacken minutely.

She knows tears are streaming down her face; her nose running. She’s not suffocating anymore, but the burden of the pain she’s caused herself and others settle in.

Exhale.

Inhale.

The noose is making itself known around her neck. Beth puts her head in her hands. 

She doesn’t know how to bear it.

She doesn’t know how to move forward.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Beth rejects the blame, exhaling.

Beth embraces the shame, inhaling. 

Beth rejects the guilt, exhaling.

Beth embraces the pain, inhaling. 

The path forward looks a little less hazy. Treacherous still, but she can see it.

Robin reaches over and grabs the box of tissues on the table, handing them to her. 

“I’m sorry,” Beth hiccups. God, she’d just had a full mental breakdown. What was it about this woman that just unhinges every aspect of her?

“Don’t be sorry. It wouldn’t be therapy without a few tears. Beth, you know what this is? This is progress. This is you feeling your emotions. This is you _facing_ what you’ve bottled away. This is nothing but _healthy._ ”

Taking a few more deep breaths, Beth opens her eyes. She smiles weakly at Robin, then goes to stand up. Beth, checking her watch, realizes their hour was over 20 minutes ago.

“I’m so sorry, I hope you didn’t have another appointment.”

“No not all, you’re my last one of the day. Don’t worry about staying late, I can tell you may have needed it.” Robin looks at her. “Beth, this is _good._ You did good today, I really hope you can feel that too.”

Beth nods, half-heartedly. As she’s heading out, she starts making a list of all the things she needs to do. 

Go home, change and fix her makeup.

Grab some after school snacks.

Text Ruby, to double-check she can grab the kids after their extracurriculars.

Increase the slow-cooker from low to medium.

Pick up the kids from school.

Get Kenny to Krav Maga for 5 pm, Danny to his swim practice at 5:45 pm.

Get Emma to dance for 6 pm; Jane will have to tag along while she drops the others off.

Get Jane showered and started on homework.

Make a salad, check on the roast.

Email the divorce lawyer.

Yes. This is good. This is soothing. She needs structure. She doesn’t need to think about—.

Draw up an outline for the auction night.

Write a list of potential customers and clients for invite-list.

Make a food and beverage shopping list.

Check out the best luxury spa retailers in Michigan.

Call Gabriel.

This is clarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -i know there are many people that disliked or have an issue with how the show killed off Lucy, and while i didn’t enjoy watching Rio kill her in the slightest, i personally think the show’s reasoning to use her as a plot device was somewhat justified (re-establishing power dynamics and rio as a violent kingpin etc), however unrealistic her character was. it was very challenging to write Beth's trauma related to Lucy, so i hope that people feel i did it somewhat justice. i also hope that i conveyed some of the weight (i think) she feels/felt regarding it, especially how it relates to her relationship with Dean, and her relationship with Rio. please know that i put a lot of thought into this chapter and if anything doesn't sit right with you, don't hesitate to let me know
> 
> -Gabriel is based off of Matt Bomer :)


	4. bourbon coloured glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auction night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you are an absolute queen, [@gangfriend](https://00gangfriend00.tumblr.com) for all your hard work and feedback. thanks a million ❤️
> 
> a gentle reminder that gabriel's moodboard can be found [here](https://whiskeyjack.tumblr.com/post/641192579654926336/aaaaaannnnd-chapter-3-is-here-please-forgive-me), if y'all are interested. i also made a new moodboard for this chapter [here](https://whiskeyjack.tumblr.com/post/642404218402209792/chapter-4-bourbon-coloured-glasses-anybody).

“Yo, we’re running low on bubbly!” Annie’s voice cuts through the conversation Beth’s currently having with an interested buyer. Annie’s waving her over from where she had come in from their outdoor show patio in her ‘modest’ swimsuit. It had been her job to get their new Nordic Rendezvous LS full and heated; the particular model Beth had chosen for Gabriel’s request. Apparently, she had taken it upon herself to claim the spa for the night as well.

Tutting, Beth turns back to her conversation. “Sorry, I better go help her out with that.” She says, shooting an apologetic look to the man who had been asking about installing UV filtration on their Cantabria model. She nods her head towards Eric and says, “He can help you out with any other questions you have.”

Then, turning away from him, she shoots Annie a look, jerking her head in the direction of the staff kitchen. 

“You do realize your shouting may have just screwed up a potential bid, a potential _good_ bid.” Beth hisses, once she’s within earshot of Annie.

“Chill, sis. He’ll still be interested in the spas later, even _more_ so after a complimentary soak and a glass of bubbles. He might even just buy one regardless of the auction.” Annie grins at her.

Beth leads them into the staff kitchen, where Eric had put the whole case of sparkling wine in the fridge.

“Aha!” Annie shouts, grabbing a couple of bottles. “Don’t forget to top up anyone else, see ya!”

“Annie!” Beth calls after her, but she’s already gone.

Beth grabs a couple of bottles herself and after opening them, brings them out to the showroom. 

There’s actually been a pretty good turnout, probably over 20 people aside from herself, Annie, Dean, Eric, Mick, Dags and a few of their employees. She had Annie to thank for getting the word out via social media. Dean had also managed to attract some potential customers via word of mouth, but Beth heavily suspects he had just pawned off some of his responsibilities on the other employees.

Ruby had outright refused to come to a party where it would involve “stewing in your own filth.” She had happily volunteered to look after the kids at their house, as long as she could rope in the help of Ben and Sarah. Beth had received quite a few texts from Ben so far, all complaints about how Kenny had been cheating in their game of monopoly.

Thinking about these updates, she quickly checks her phone. 

Nothing from Gabriel or Rio. 

She takes a deep breath and flicks hostess _Bethie_ on.

Walking through the showroom, Beth offers anyone in her path model information, charity information or a wine top-up; whatever their needs.

Eric is now in the corner chatting to a couple who had just tried out their (most) environmentally friendly four-person model; complete with a special feature where the heat from the water leaving the circulation system is recycled and used to heat the fresh water entering through copper pipes in the interior structure of the spa. 

Inside, they had filled a total of six of their models with a bidding table next to each spa (but far enough away so there’s no splash or water damage, thanks to Ruby’s advice). In the end, Annie and Ruby had only needed to use two hoses to connect the spouts from the outside of the building, and it had taken them the previous night to heat the filled spas. Beth had invited all customers that had stopped by during the daytime hours to come by that night if they were interested. She had also capitalized on the filled spas during daytime hours using them to demonstrate the different jet capacities and water features. And, of course, how enticing did they look filled up bubbling and steaming away?

Annie had actually done a really exceptional job decorating the showroom with twinkly lights; both the interior and exterior, and changing the lightbulbs inside so the party is bathed in soft yellow light.

Ironically, in the end, they had decided to claim they were raising money for a low-profile drowning prevention awareness organization called the Great Lakes Water Safety Consortium. It’s an organization that’s low enough profile to not attract too much attention, but legit enough that people could look it up on their phones if they wanted. It’s not like anyone is going to follow up with them anyways.

It seems that half of the people that had shown up are interested in the charity, luckily. The others, not so much. Maybe they were here to try out the spas. Or the free wine.

Beth had also decided that anyone who would still like to purchase a spa, but not bid on one, would be offered 15% off.

The night is turning out to be quite balanced, with no more than two to three people in each spa, chatting merrily, with nothing but a glass of water or sparkling wine in hand. Beth really couldn’t have planned it better if she’d tried.

Everyone really does look like they are having a good time.

Beth spots Dean in the corner talking to a young woman, her blonde hair cascading elegantly down her string-bikini-clad back. Beth scoffs, turning towards the kitchen again to return the bottles to the fridge.

“Top-up?” 

Beth jumps, surprised, whipping around to the sound of Rio’s unmistakable drawl.

She’d only seen him once since his ludicrously increased-cut demand; when he’d invited himself to tonight’s event, his irritated eyes conveying that he’d be coming by to check on how his cut’s coming along.

Beth hadn’t been back to see Robin after that awful last session, cancelling her session this past week since she’d needed the extra time to do some research for Gabriel. 

Her ability to control her thoughts having unfortunately become disastrous since her initial panic attack; Beth constantly had found herself trying and failing to desperately reorganize them. Consequently, she’d only managed to control one of the three panic attacks she’d had this week. Every time her thoughts circled back to—.

Rio holds out his empty glass, which he’d gotten from—where?

She meets his eyes, filling his glass. “I didn’t know if you’d stop by.”

“Said I would, didn’t I?” he responds easily, bringing the flute up to his nose. He sniffs the wine, then takes a sip. He makes a face, peering down at the label. 

Beth’s hand twitches on the bottle. Apparently, this man _also_ has a flagrant taste in Champagne. Well, she thinks smugly, at least she’d gotten the good stuff for his highness.

“Problem?” she asks faux sweetly.

Rio swirls the wine around the glass and takes another drink.

A pause. 

“You know you can just buy the cheap shit, right? It’s basically the same thing, you’re just paying for the region’s name and import fees. Other sparkling wines use different grapes but are cheaper. They,” he points around at the other guests, “sure as shit don’t know the difference.”

_What?_

Beth opens her mouth to snap at him but he’s continuing before she can fully form a sentence. As if he hadn’t said anything completely out of the normal. As if he hadn’t just offered her advice on her wine choices. 

Rio.

“Don’t wanna try it out?” he gestures out to the patio with his glass.

Beth’s eyes flick to the back.

She watches as Annie carries both bottles of the wine she’d grabbed from the kitchen and steps into the spa. Her being out there didn’t surprise Beth. What did surprise Beth, however, is Mick. 

Who is laughing. 

In the spa. 

Mick?

Laughing?

With Annie?

Beth short circuits.

She stares at the odd scene unfolding in front of her. 

Maybe she’s had too much wine.

And then she remembers Rio’s here. 

In front of her. Waiting for an answer.

Beth suddenly doesn’t think she’s had _enough_ wine. “I’ve heard they breed diseases,” she answers, finishing off her wine. 

Rio nods, snorting softly.

Beth turns to refill her glass; a momentary attempt to compose herself. As she places the bottle on the table, her gaze falls on Dean. He now has his hand on the bare waist of the woman he’d been talking to, his head bent low as he whispers something in her ear. The woman giggles as a response to whatever he says.

Trying to clear her throat of revulsion, Beth takes a sizable sip from her glass, turning back to Rio.

“Give me a sec,” she says to him. As she speaks, she lightly touches his shoulder, excusing herself. She feels him tense but doesn’t wait for a response as she turns away. She blames the _regionally defined imported_ wine.

Beth walks over to Dean; who, upon seeing her walking towards him, immediately straightens up and takes his hand reluctantly off the woman. The woman turns to see the reason behind her and, seeing Beth, Clare or Clarissa; whatever her name is, glares at her.

Beth doesn’t spare a glance for the underdressed infant in front of her. She meets Dean’s eyes and gestures to her office. 

Their divorce papers had once again been drawn up, and Dean being well, Dean, is taking them in stride as he usually does. The only silver lining of his despicable behaviour is that she doesn’t have to deal with straight-up lies this time.

He glumly follows her into the enclosed space.

“Bethie…”

Beth cuts him off with a hand gesture. “Seriously?”

“I was selling hot tubs?”

“It's _spas_.” Beth corrects sardonically. She turns away from Dean, shaking her head. “I mean, Dean, are you fucking serious? In front of all of our employees? We need to _try_ to appear united.”

“I was attracting customers, Beth.”

“Oh, is _that_ what we’re calling it now?” She interjects heatedly.

“For your information, I was about to confirm a sale before you walked over. Clarissa didn’t think she’d win the Cantabria but was about to settle on the Heritage. Besides, what did you expect would happen? I have eyes, I could see you with _him_ over there.”

“He’s here to check on his investment.” Beth easily dismisses Dean with a wave of her hand.

“I’m sorry, _what_?” Dean asks, his brows furrowed. “He _invested_ in this place?!”

She looks at him contemptuously. “Dean, how do you think we _pay_ for things?”

Beth is spared Dean’s response by Rio waltzing easily into the office.

Great.

Exactly what she needs.

Dean’s flush seems to intensify. Beth’s about to say something, but he cuts her off. “You shouldn’t be here,” directing his words at Rio.

“Oh yeah?” he taunts.

Dean straightens his posture, turning to face Rio. “This is a matter between Beth and me.”

Rio shoots Beth a look, something she’s easily able to decipher. The only thing missing from this moment is a neon ‘Vette. 

She scoffs at this juvenile dick measuring contest.

“Dean, you should go, I’ll come and find you in a bit,” Beth says turning towards Dean, not making eye-contact with Rio. 

She just _knows_ he’s holding a self-satisfied expression.

Dean opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He looks at Beth, but with a look from her, he falters and strolls out of the office door.

Beth tries to side-step Rio, moving towards the exit, avidly trying to avoid this inevitable interaction. She doesn’t want to know how much Rio heard or saw; she doesn’t need him worrying about the state of their business right now.

Rio moves smoothly in front of the door, blocking her path.

She grudgingly stops directly in front of him. “What?” She asks, rather aggressively.

“He always treat you like that?”

Beth wouldn’t have believed he’d asked her that if she didn’t physically see his mouth move to form the words. She finds herself stunned for the second time tonight.

And then reality kicks in.

Where’d he get the _right_ to ask her a question like that?

Beth sneers at him. “Why do you care?”

“I _don’t_. But Imma need to know if you and Car man are gunna cost me my business.” Rio hardens his eyes. “ _Again_.”

She expected this, but even as the words leave his mouth, she’s reminded how precisely and powerfully he chooses to attack her insecurities, crushing her. 

More than she cares to admit. 

Shaking her head in contempt, Beth tries to leave again.

Rio reaches out and grabs her wrist. 

As soon as his hand makes contact with her skin, he recoils violently, as if the physical contact had burned him.

“What do you _want_? Why are you _here_?” She asks again, more fire in her voice. 

She doesn’t need their games right now.

Rio’s opening his mouth to respond, but his phone rings obscenely in his pocket, disrupting the tension like a brutal axe. He sifts through his pocket, pulling out the device and looking at its screen. He shoots Beth a look; one that clearly says this isn’t over. 

Then he’s gone; phone to his ear.

Incensed, Beth sighs, heading back to the party. 

***

The next few hours pass in a blur. After the silent bidding had passed, a few of their guests had started to head home. They were doing relatively well in terms of sales as well, with eight inquiries and five orders.

She’s heading over to check on the snack table to see if anything needs refilling when she sees a familiar figure striding over to her in a very odd mix of clothing. Dressed in what looks like a half-linen suit, presumably to go with the theme of “spa night,” Gabriel’s wearing a shirt, jacket and pair of slick black swim shorts as an ensemble.

His shirt is unbuttoned, and in the gap, she’s able to see a tattoo peeking out on one of his sides.

Even in the bizarre outfit, he’s pulling it off; strutting around like he owns the place. Beth can’t help thinking about how his confidence is strikingly familiar. 

Jesus. What is _wrong_ with her?

Feeling relieved that he’s come by, she chooses to focus on that; smiling at him. She’d been worrying that her efforts to get the Rendezvous full and ready would have been for nothing.

She had called Gabriel to follow up the previous week to go over the specifics of what exactly he wanted for the luxury spas. The following day, she had driven all over the state to other spa retailers; Luxury up north in Bayview, Zagers and Nordic in Grand Rapids. She even made a trip to Lifestyles; their biggest competitor in Detroit. 

In the end, Beth had decided on Nordic, since they offer most of the features Gabriel is looking for, plus they have the contemporary concept of a ‘Scandinavian’ brand that seems to be attracting many young customers. The manager there had actually seemed inclined to continue a partnership if things went well. They could potentially be the sole Nordic spa supplier in Detroit, granting them an even better way to cook the books.

“Hey!” Gabriel exclaims, now, beelining over to her. “Place looks great, I can see you took my advice with the trial runs.” He beams at her.

She responds in kind, humouring him. “Thank you, but don’t flatter yourself _too_ much—this was a moving target before you came along.”

“Can’t wait to try them out.” He says, grinning flirtatiously. “This the spa?” He gestures to the Cantabria model.

“No, actually, that’s our original luxury floor model, Cantabria. I was able to get the Rendezvous model I talked to you about, it’s just out back—my sister is currently taking up residence there.” Beth points to the back, where Annie is now sitting alone in the spa, a serene look on her face. “You’re welcome to go ahead and grab a drink and some food, I’m just going to check in with her.”

Gabriel nods, and Beth, turning around, heads out to the showroom patio.

She briefly pauses to help bring some dirty glasses to the kitchen, placing them in the sink. Once washing them up, she heads outside.

Annie’s humming along with a song quietly playing in the background; an over-the-top feature on this model of spa, in Beth’s honest opinion; underwater speakers. 

Annie opens her eyes when she hears Beth approach.

“Are you seriously going to just stay out here alone all night?”

“Yup. This baby is perfect. She’s my home now.” Annie moves over to the panel, changing the light setting to multi-coloured and increasing the jet power. “My spa buddy, Mickey, left,” she pouts.

“I noticed. Wait—Mickey?”

“Yeah, you know, well—his name is Mick. Or Michael. But both of those sounded wrong. He seemed to like the nickname. Also, he was so excited when I mentioned this is a Nordic spa. His eyes like, bulged all wide, it was hilarious. He couldn’t get in fast enough. He also kept asking me about all the different features.” Annie rolls her eyes.

“I can imagine,” Beth says with contempt, “he _really_ wanted a hot-tub,” shaking her head.

“Sis, come join me. I could use the company. At least until OG gangfriend’s gangfriend comes back.”

“Where’d he even go?”

“He left when OG gangfriend nodded at him; rather aggressively if I may add, he just bounced no explanation. Which, I guess, is like _no_ shocker.”

“Well it’s probably for the better, the fewer guns at this party the better.”

“Yeesh, when did our lives come to this?”

Beth just shakes her head.

“Oh, I know! I think it was the moment my _responsible_ sister decided we rob a grocery store.”

Beth shushes Annie, looking around to make sure no remaining customers are within earshot. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, Annie. Remember who he works for, okay?”

“I’m sorry, do you even hear yourself?” Annie exclaims incredulously, shaking her head in disbelief.

“What?” Beth says, stunned. She feels her defences going up automatically. “ _You_ were the one hanging out with a gangbanger in a hot tub alone!” Beth’s voice is getting low, but doesn’t fail to convey the hysterics she’s close to bridging. Not just _any_ gangbanger. The one that pulled the trigger and killed _Lucy_.

Annie’s expression, however liquor lax, goes stony. 

“Thought they’re called _spas_ ,” Annie mutters solemnly. “Way to kill my buzz. If you wanted me out of the spa, you could’ve just asked.” She moves to get out.“I mean, you can’t seriously be the one lecturing _me_ on who _I’m_ spending my time with.” She dries herself off, not waiting for a response. “Just so you know, _my_ gangfriend literally asked if he could join _me_. He didn’t impose his presence on me like _your_ gangfriend does.”

Annie heads inside.

Beth sighs, running her hand through her hair. She walks over to the bottle that Annie had left and fills up her glass, downing its contents. She then fills it up a second time, downing that too. 

“That bad, huh?”

She turns around. 

Gabriel is standing there in his swim shorts, jacket and shirt over his shoulder, an open bottle of Champagne and two empty flutes in his hands.

“Sorry, no, just my sister.” She smiles weakly at him.

“Have you gotten a chance to try out this marvel yet?”

Beth shakes her head.

“I just tried out the Cantabria, and if I may add, I have high expectations right now. So let’s compare, shall we?” He smirks at her. He walks over to the table she is standing near and fills his two glasses with wine, handing her a glass.

Their luxury spa inside did seem to be attracting a lot of attention among the few remaining guests. A small group of five, including Dean and Clarissa, were currently gathered in the bubbles. With her nose scrunched, Beth turns back to Gabriel.

He takes his clothes off his shoulder, and as he does so, the tattoo Beth had seen the corner of earlier is revealed. Two feathers, held together by an intricate knot cover his left pec. The line of string loosely wraps itself around one of the feathers only for its end to finish just over his heart. The whole tattoo is beautiful and she’s struck by its poetic entirety; the delicacy of the details in the lines of the avian tail feathers highlighted by the simplicity of the twine.

“Come on, I’m sure you can afford to take a break. It will feel good to get off your feet for a bit, at least while the party’s dying down, right?” Completely unaware of what she is staring at, Gabriel turns and makes his way to the tub. “My sister always said, ‘you always regret the things you didn’t do more than the things you did.’ I choose to live by that logic.”

Beth chances another glance at him. He holds a contemplative expression as he meets her eyes, settling down in one of the spas chaises.

She knows it’s probably a bad idea. 

But. 

Fuck it. 

Annie’s mad at her, and there only seemed to be four remaining guests excluding Annie, Dean, her and Gabriel.

Beth pulls off her dress, a piece that blessedly doubled as host appropriate and a cover-up. She walks over to the Rendezvous in her navy one-piece, shivering a little at the night's cool breeze.

As she steps in gradually, she finds herself giving in to the euphoria that only hot jetted water can incite in her muscles. They scream their appreciation over their albeit forced relaxation, something she hasn’t really taken the time for or encouraged for herself outside of sleeping. 

She sinks into the depths of the liquid tranquillity, letting out a stuttered sigh of relief.

Gabriel is sitting across from her, watching her with the same glazed gaze Beth’s sure she has written all over her face. 

Something he had said registers.

“Your sister sounds like she’s very smart.”

A shadow passes over Gabriel’s face. He swallows slowly. He looks down and nods, “She was.”

There’s a wine-caused lag in Beth’s brain, and she makes herself fight it. She meets Gabriel’s mournful eyes. “I’m so sorry, I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

Gabriel shoots her an unreadable look. He starts playing with the water. They fall into an awkward silence.

Beth’s at a loss for words. She finally settles on, “How old was she?”

“26.”

It hits her instantly. She had been the same age as Lucy. 

Inhale.

Exhale.

Beth can’t bring herself to respond.

“She died about ten years ago. I remember like it was yesterday though.”

“Were you two close?” She asks finally, her voice cracking.

“Yeah, we were. I was adopted and initially, that did create some distance between us, but by the time we were both in high school, we were inseparable. We did everything together, we even ended up going to the same university.” He smiles sadly like the fond memory was a hard one to hold on to.“She said it was because she wanted to be close to our parents but I think she just wanted to live with me. I mean, who wants to study ornithology at the University of Michigan? She actually got a scholarship to Dalhousie, in Canada, but turned it down.”

“I’m sure she knew exactly what she was doing. You must miss her a lot.”

“Not a day goes by where I don’t find myself thinking, she would have loved this. She would have laughed at that. And then it’s like I’m losing her all over again.”

Exhale.

Inhale.

Beth reaches for her glass of wine, needing something to ease the lump in her throat. 

This spa is starting to feel like the last place she wants to be. Intertwined emotions are swimming around her, trying to pull her down into their depths, and she doesn’t think she’ll survive the suffocation.

Gabriel speaks as soon as Beth’s decided to flee.

“Wow, I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “Bella is not what I wanted to be talking about while getting to try this incredible spa with you. Can you walk me through the features?” His manner shifts so suddenly, she barely has time to process his words but she catches his lifeline all the same.

“Umm yeah… of course.” She attempts to string together her thoughts. 

She can do _this_.

Talking through each of the features, she demonstrates the different jet and light capacities, how to use the control panel, where the operational controls are; the works.

After about twenty minutes, Gabriel glances inside, and seeing something that appears to capture his interest, Beth glances inside too. Annie’s chatting to one of the final couples and they seem like they’re on their way out. 

Annie's attention is shifted when a G-Wagon pulls into the parking lot in front of their showroom windows.

Gabriel reaches over and checks his phone. “I’m so sorry, Beth, I have to head out. This is beyond what I was expecting though, thank you for all your work to get this spa here. Is there any way I can meet up with you again? Maybe over dinner to discuss the details? I can bring the deposit then.”

“Sure,” Beth hums quietly, as he heads out of the spa.

“I’ll give you a call.” Gabriel gives her an award-winning smile, drying himself off hastily with his towel. He grabs his shirt and jacket and puts them on.

After giving her one last look, Gabriel strides back inside, ducking quickly into a bathroom. 

Beth reaches over to check her phone. There’s a text from Ruby with a picture of seven sleeping bags and their occupants passed out and spread out on their living room floor. She smiles at the image, putting her phone back down.

She would give herself five more minutes, and then back to the party to start the cleanup. She’ll need to gather any food and wine leftovers, wipe down the surfaces, collect the discarded towels, put away the tables, turn off and unplug all the spas. She’ll empty them early tomorrow morning.

She doesn’t need to think about—

“Enjoyin’ yourself?”

Beth’s eyes snap open. Somehow, she’s not all that shocked. After all, not many people own _that_ monstrosity of a car.

She peers around, and sure enough, as her eyes pass over Dean, inside, still entertaining Clarissa, she feels that predictable nausea building in her stomach. 

Beth can’t bring herself to meet Rio’s eyes. Her words are directed at him though. “Thought you left.”

“Mhmm.” Rio hums, following her gaze 

He didn’t offer any other form of explanation. 

Classic.

Beth finally shifts so she’s looking at him, narrowing her eyes. 

He seems different from earlier, almost blurry. His edges have softened quite a bit, perhaps indicating a level of intoxication she’s never seen in him before. There’s also a heavy set to his shoulders, almost like he’s carrying the weight of the world.

“Come on, ma. You ain’t gunna invite me to join?” Rio gives her his best pouty look. He holds up the bottle of bourbon and a tumbler she keeps in her desk drawer.

Which. 

Of course.

“Nah,” she imitates him with her best impression of his deep voice, smirking. She turns away, shuffling into a new spot.

Once settled, she chances a glance at him out of the corner of her eye.

He’s watching her with a look in his eyes that shouldn’t be legal. He strides over agonizingly slow and leans against the outside rim, right next to where she’s now sitting, almost touching her, as he feels the water.

So it’s this kind of game.

“Doin’ some market research, huh?” He asks, pouring some bourbon into the drinking glass and handing it to her.

“It’s important to understand all the features our products have to offer,” Beth answers, accepting the drink from him.

The corners of his mouth quirk up. “Right, right.”

They both fall silent. She takes a rather large mouthful of his amber détente, placing the tumbler carefully on the side.

Beth plays with the surface of the water, hoping the bubbles cover up the flush that’s creeping up her chest. 

Rio juts out his bottom lip, his head inclining to the side, seemingly distracted. His eyes drift back inside where the night’s slowing down. Annie’s now going around collecting the leftover abandoned drinks and plates and ushering out the last minglers still in spas. “Car man still here?”

She turns her face so her eyes meet Rio’s, “Yes.” 

The edges blur a little more.

Beth’s flush deepens. He’s only asking for the benefit of the business. How could she think it’s anything other than that?

“He’s helping with our sales side of the operation. He—attracts customers.” 

She glances inside again, seeing Dean helping Clarissa out of their luxury spa, Clarissa then grabbing his hand as they head out of sight.

“And your lil’ ones?”

She’s still processing Rio’s question about Dean and trying _not_ to imagine where Dean and his child friend are headed when Rio’s four words cut through her haze.

Her—little ones?

Beth tries to reel in her shock, completely appalled that he’d asked. 

Rio has never taken an interest in her family affairs, _especially_ now, after—why would he? Other than Dean and her crumbling marriage affecting the business, he has no reason to know, let alone _want_ to know.

She plays with the glass, looking through the distorted caramel window into the empty showroom. Now that everyone’s headed home, she should start the cleanup. Even though Ruby is staying over, she doesn’t want to worry her by being too late.

Like always, she can’t help but notice how the world ceases to exist when she and Rio are in proximity. Whenever he’s in front of her, or even just near her, he is and remains the entire focal point of her attention; it’s infuriating.

She finally hums a response to his question, saying, “They’re with their aunt tonight.”

He eyes her. Furrowing his brows, he nods as if he understands. 

Which, he does. 

More than she gives him credit for. Beth's thoughts drift to Rhea and Marcus.

Marcus.

Marcus, who she—

She and Rio have never _actually_ sincerely acknowledged that they share parenthood in common, even before. The duality of the lives they live has always been a weapon they’ve wielded against each other in their worst moments.

Well, maybe. 

Except once. 

The soft pink memory tries to poke its way through the savagely locked and abandoned box, fastened securely shut with memories of some of their harshest words and actions they’ve drowned themselves in.

Not tonight though. 

The haziness of the night swirls around them. Maybe it’s the bourbon whispering, but Beth seems to think there’s a quiet despair and exhaustion in Rio’s re-appearance tonight. 

As she appraises him curiously, and he seems to come to the same realization as her and straightens up; rolling his shoulders back. 

Beth assumes his actions are an attempt to compose himself into a less vulnerable state. 

But as he’s rolling his shoulders, he shudders.

Captivated, Beth witnesses him wince subconsciously. She’s never seen him attempt to puzzle his pieces back together so openly. She’s transfixed, unable to breathe. This moment feels incredibly fragile; one wrong move and it would collapse into ruin. She fights brutally against her own instinct to try and help him. 

She scolds herself. This is the last person that either deserves or wants her help. Hell, why does _she_ want to help him?

Still.

The strain behind his eyes hasn’t left.

She can tell he’s still in pain.

She opens her mouth, the words falling out of their own accord. “You should try this jet here; the hot water will help with your shoulder.”

Rio just… looks at her. She can see the fallout of World War Three going on behind his eyes, deeply conflicted with the potential of the choices he holds.

After a full minute of silence, and violent treason apparently (if his facial expression is to give anything away), he speaks.

“Aight.” 

He moves over to start stripping off his clothes.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Rio knows it ain’t smart what he’s about to do, but—, and—. 

Fuck. 

He can still see Riley’s look of surprise.

He can still hear the throbbing reverberations of the discharge.

He can still feel the kickback all over his body.

He can still smell the acrid scent of her warm blood, plastering his hands.

He can still taste his self-hatred.

Fuck. 

Riley. 

He’d known Riley for five years, but the cops had flipped her. He hadn’t had a choice.

Alena had told him he doesn’t have any more chances, and she’s right. He can’t afford to fuck up anymore. He’d asked Cisco to look into their bartenders; Rio had had a hunch that it had been one of them.

This is the part of the life he hates, and shit—it never gets easier. Recently, though, it’s been gettin’ nothing but wearying.

He’d downed the first few shots in a mere attempt to numb the onslaught of memories he had shared with Riley.

Her joyful laugh had been swallowed with the first round.

Her fond smile at something Maya had said, _that_ had needed two more rounds to disappear.

Rio keeps forgetting that his tolerance ain’t what it used to be.

When Mick had asked where he had wanted to be dropped off, Rio had given him a look. Mick had just silently nodded, and driven him here.

“Ey, boss? Be careful, yeah?”

Rio had rolled his eyes and hopped out of the car.

He’d already taken care of a rotten egg tonight, so why not check on another? Make sure Elizabeth knows how to stay in line. 

_This_ time. 

That’s _all_. 

The next thing Rio knows is he’s taking his gun from his waistband, looking down at it as he cautiously places the weapon on the table. Rio can feel the heat emanating off it, almost as if it’s still warm from use. The light from the showroom reflects off the gleaming metal, a silent omen.

Silently, he undoes the first few buttons of his shirt, pulling it over his head, meeting Elizabeth’s eyes as he does so. 

He can feel the arduous ache of the kickback in his right shoulder. Ignoring it, he undoes his belt and pulls off his jeans, toeing off his shoes and socks as well.

In just his briefs, he holds out his hand for her glass, and she hands it to him. 

Rio drains the semi-empty glass in one go and moves to fill it up again. He hands it back to her.

He comes back over to the same side as Elizabeth. Pulling himself up and over the edge fluidly, he carefully places his weight evenly between his aching and recovering shoulders. His feet and calves burn in the scorching water, but he fails to notice as his leg lightly presses against her arm.

Elizabeth is starin’ at the spot where his lips touched the glass. 

Finally, she takes a sip, then puts the glass on the edge. 

They both sit in silence for a while, the fog of the night and bourbon melting together and settling between them. It’s enough to convince Rio that they are existing in some sort of state of a ceasefire, at least momentarily. 

He lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding.

Shit—maybe he hadn’t _just_ come here to check on his investment. 

Maybe he wanted, no, _needed_ —

His thoughts are derailed instantly when a splash of hot water hits him in the shoulder. So much for a ceasefire.

As the water sears his skin, he whips his head around, makin’ eye contact with her.

Nah, she did not just do that. He stares at her.

“The water won’t work if you’re not in it,” and then, in a fuckin’ terrible attempt at what Rio assumes is supposed to be an impression of him, Elizabeth says, “c’mon, take a dip.”

He shoots her a smirk, then slips into the water, letting it completely engulf him. The heat is beyond relaxing and his muscles tremble from release in a way he ain’t felt in a long time. 

Well damn—maybe Mick had a point about the hydro-water-therapy or whatever that shit’s called.

When he surfaces, he shoves a wave of hot foaming water back at her, narrowly missin’ her face. Rolling her eyes, she goes to grab the glass of bourbon and takes a sip.

Rio backs up into one of the seats, settling across from her.

In an attempt to stop his mind from flashing back to—he thinks of earlier in the evening.

“You always let Car man treat you like that?” He asks again, hoping this time she’ll answer. Rio knows this is treacherous territory; one he ain’t got the right to; one he knows he shouldn’t _want_ the right to.

But, he’d seen the way Car man had put his primitive child hands all over that woman, and Rio had known Elizabeth had clocked it too. 

Not for the first time, he wonders why she stays with him. He’s a piece of shit, and something rises in his stomach. A desire to show her she deserves better than that guy. She deserves—

Fuck.

Rio shakes his head as Elizabeth clears her throat. Not meeting his dangerously apprehensive gaze, she plays with the water. “We’re working on some things right now.”

“He any good at it?”

Her eyes snap to him. She stares at him for a long second before eventually shaking her head.

Rio reaches for the glass and offers it to her. Elizabeth accepts it gratefully, swallowing down a couple of mouthfuls before handing it back to him. He slowly drinks a generous gulp, finishing it, then places it back on the edge.

“Dean found out about your— _involvement_ —in the business tonight. I’m handling it.”

Rio nods. “Aight.”

Elizabeth snorts. “Really? When was the last time you let me _handle_ something?”

And.

Well. 

The mention seems to sober them both a bit, and her face falls.

Rio sniffs, cracking his neck. “How’s my cut comin’?” 

“We’ve sold about ten,” and, seeing his eyes darken, she adds, “but I’ve got a potential buyer for 20 of these models,” gesturing to the spa they’re currently sitting in.

“Who the fuck wants to buy 20 of these?”

“He’s an investor and looking for a wholesaler for some condo developments.”

Rio hums thinking. “You ever wonder why some guy is willing to drop over a mil for spas?”

“You’ll get your cut.” Beth scoffs.

Rio shakes his head. “Nah, you’re not hearing me. You sure this guy’s legit?”

“Yes, I’ve met up with him a couple of times, and he’s got an itemized list of specifications. He came by tonight, actually.”

“Gimme his name, I’ll check him out.” He leans forward in his seat so he’s sitting up straight.

“Why? He’s _my_ contact.”

“Elizabeth.”

They stare at each other, Elizabeth meeting his glare with nothing but a challenge in her eyes.

After a moment, and after breaking eye contact with him, she wades over to the edge of the tub and climbs the steps, her skin flushed from the heat of the spa. 

Rio, against his will, is struck by all her curves on display; he tries to snap himself out of it. 

She’d _just_ refused to give him the name of this shady guy. After the slack _he_ is cutting her for whatever shit’s going down between her and Car man.

Once she’d grabbed the bottle of bourbon, she makes her way back in. 

The bourbon and the hot water do nothing to numb the unquenchable prickling reminding him how much he admires and abhors Elizabeth.

She refills the glass and then leans over Rio, to put the bottle on the edge.

Without warning, she slips. 

The bottle of bourbon smashes on the ground.

Reacting instinctually, Rio grabs for her, his hands making contact with the closest part of her body. His shoulder cries out at the sudden movement but he doesn’t pay any attention to it. Grabbing her hips to keep her steady, they’re unexpectedly much closer than they’ve been all night. All week. All month. All—

Elizabeth lets out a breathy exhale, glancing down at his hands. 

Rio doesn’t want to let go.

But. 

He does.

As he’s pulling back, she grabs his hands and puts them back on her hips.

He watches her with heavily lidded eyes, lips parted. 

Time seems to stand still; both of them just existing in this moment, frozen.

Then, slowly, Elizabeth unsteadily bridges the space between the two of them, her shaky breath fanning across his face. Rio forces himself to inhale, his head swimming in nothing but her.

As she’s leaning forward, Rio can feel the jagged edge of his ragged breath cause a subtle throb of his shoulder but doesn’t have the energy to focus on it. He chooses to focus on the light press of her lips against his and the gentle quivers he senses under his fingertips. 

As if _she’s_ unsure about his reaction.

As if _he_ has the choice to react any other way. 

As if _he_ holds the control and not the other way around—she has the means to unravel him with only a glance.

When she pulls away, fury suddenly rises in Rio’s body. Why the fuck does she think she can just kiss him like _that_? 

After everything she’s done to him? 

After everything he’s done to her?

After everything they’ve done to each other?

Questions that he has the answers to, but Rio can’t bring himself to remember them now.

All sensible thought leaves his mind as she pulls him back to her. The moment her lips touch his own, relief blossoms in his body of its own accord, an all-consuming assuaging thirst he can never get enough of. The relief and insatiable ferocity he experiences with her is a combination that Rio can’t ever make sense of, no matter how hard he tries.

Their relationship was disfigured the moment he stepped foot in that bathroom. And again in her home. And again in his loft. Twice. 

Putting bandaids on bullet holes. 

That’s exactly what he’s been doing until now. 

Figuratively, of course.

How can they mar and mend themselves at the same time?

He bites her lip and she whimpers, the salty taste of her blood fuelling his yearning. Feeding his desperate need for fresh memories.

The smell of Elizabeth’s breath; desire doused with a hint of bourbon, is something Rio despairingly inhales to etch into his mind.

The taste of Elizabeth’s blood repaints the memory of Riley’s.

The sound of Elizabeth’s breath, quiet but alive and steady, replaces the brutal aftermath of the gunshot.

The feeling of the heated water against flushed skin burns away the warmth of Riley’s blood.

The sight of Elizabeth makes him forget everything else.

Their tongues, meeting in a tangle of frantic recklessness and absolute chaos, attempt to comprehend the feelings Rio can’t put into words. He needs Elizabeth to make sense of his pieces, hers and theirs.

Mind-numbing bliss is what surges through his mind as Rio pulls Elizabeth closer, so she’s sitting on his lap. 

Tangentially, he knows there’s a reason for all of this to stop. That there is a _need_ for this to stop.

But all he can feel is the answer to a question he never asked.

All he can feel is the ability to breathe again. 

All he can feel is _her_.

Her against him.

Her fingers mapping out his jawline.

Her curved lines pressing into his firm ones.

Her ass grinding down on his lower body.

Her heated cunt nudging his semi-hard cock.

Rio suppresses a groan against her swollen lips, leaving deep impressions from his fingers in her waist. Knowing this moment ain’t going to last forever, he kisses Elizabeth like they’re underwater. She’s his respirator; his only source of oxygen. 

An irrepressible sigh escapes both of them at the same time, the sensation of their mixing breath overwhelming him.

Elizabeth nibbles his bottom lip, then lowers her mouth to his neck. Rio moans as her mouth meets his pulse-quickened inked skin, and he’s struck again by the symbolic dichotomy of the lips of one havoc-wreaking woman touching his marked and broken history with another. A collision of worlds, battle scars and almost too revealing.

He grabs the back of her neck, where her delicate curls are gathered, wet and soft, and he tugs her back to his lips. Elizabeth’s lips slot perfectly against his, something that will never stop astonishing him.

Rio breaks the kiss only to latch on to her clavicle with a manic intensity. He uncages his possessive need for her; he wants to mark her as his, in all the permanent and irreparable ways she’s marked him. 

Her nails rake the back of his neck, and he shudders. Nobody should have this much control over him; it ain’t fair.

Her lips are searchin’ his out when he breaks free from her collarbone, and they part with no hesitation upon heated contact with his. After a few dizzying moments, Rio leans his head back as her lips make their way down his neck once more, Elizabeth putting her hands softly on his chest as she does so. 

He feels her stiffen and pulls back, trying to swim through his muddled thoughts. Even his heart beating a million miles per minute can’t prepare him for the depth of the realization of what’s just occurred.

A small gasp escapes her mouth. He looks up, but Elizabeth’s eyes are fixed on his chest.

Rio knows immediately what’s caught her attention, and he tenses painfully. Any lust still fuelling his thoughts is extinguished by an excruciating ice bath of reality. 

Seizing him into a forcefully sober state.

And just like that, the ease and surrender he felt moments ago vanishes. 

He realizes the absurd stupidity of their actions.

Shit.

Rio knows she’s about to say something but he ain’t about to let her. 

He don’t wanna hear it. 

He pushes her off gently, and she goes willingly, almost recoiling from the contact. 

Rio wades over to the edge. He moves to step out. 

Something stops him. 

He looks back at Elizabeth. 

Her big ol’blues are wide and it looks like she’s about to start tearing up. 

Something tears in his chest. 

But this feeling’s nothing compared to the feelin’ of three slugs. 

The feeling of shock, only to be overcome by betrayal.

The feeling of intense burning heat eviscerating his spleen.

The feeling of leaving Marcus behind.

The feeling of not bein’ able to breathe, choking on his own blood while Elizabeth leaves him.

Rio turns around and makes his way out of the hot tub, leaving her.

As he steps out of the spa, the shattered bottle catches his eye. Bourbon sparkling on the serrated shards that are scattered all over the ground. 

Damaged fragments beyond repair.

He chucks on his button-up and grabs his jeans to jump into. He knows she’s staring at him, so he keeps his back to her. He starts to button up his shirt. He feels the tell-tale tremor of his left hand, the one he’s learned to expect around the fuckin’ third button. 

_Nah_ , this ain’t happening right here, right now. 

Miraculously, he manages to get his buttons done up semi-normally. After sliding his shoes on, he goes for his glimmering gun and, as he does so, he looks up at her.

Rio’s eyes meet Elizabeth’s.

Two grenades, each holding each other’s pin. Pull one, and they both go off. All destruction, all catastrophe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -don’t drink and spa guys it leads to trouble
> 
> -full disclosure: i started this chapter with doing a lot of research on spas/hot-tubs, what have you, in the Detroit and Michigan area. and when i say a lot, i mean *a lot*. like let’s just say I contacted five different luxury spa retailers in Michigan. did i lose interest about half way through? you bet i did. so. some details are made up, some are not. 
> 
> -for Rio’s minor (wrong) wine flex: in case anyone is interested in the difference between champagne and say, canadian brut, winemakers may both use identical chardonnay and pinot noir clones and identical ratios/ingredients/yeasts etc (extremely unlikely considering the art in winemaking) in the wine production, but the wine produced in canada can’t be labelled as champagne due to old world (EU) AOC/AOP (geographical indications) regulations, so we have to call it sparkling wine or brut. just like prosecco only comes from a specifically defined region in italy. or cava from spain. naming aside, though, even if the wine makeup is identical, regional differences (climate, soil, etc) do impact the taste of the wines greatly.
> 
> -the entirety of this chapter was highkey inspired by [@BourbonOnTheRocks](https://bourbon-ontherocks.tumblr.com)’ [Take A Dip](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24497713?view_full_work=true). enticing and captivating read that is just overall F A N T A S T I C. Rio, Beth, rooftop party, alcohol, and Mick’s spa, what could possibly go wrong?
> 
> -BUTTONS!! 100% inspired by [@riosnecktattoo](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/riosnecktattoo)’s [Do No Harm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26255161/chapters/63908977). bless you and your absolutely heart-shattering but heart-healing ideas


	5. in pearls past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rio has a particularly triggering flashback.  
> Therapy Session #3, a couple of realizations are made.  
> Rio gets an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -as usual, [@gangfriend](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/00gangfriend00) your patience, support and suggestions really helped move this chapter along, thanks love.
> 
> -this chapter is grammatically unbeta-ed, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> -moodboards for all the OCs, Rio and Beth can be found [here.](https://whiskeyjack.tumblr.com/post/643765294663450624/chapter-5-in-pearls-past-has-arrived-if-youre)

The pressure of the cold metal contrasts harshly with Rio’s hangover-induced clammy skin. 

He’d gotten barely an hour of sleep last night; liquor-coated memories mixing with sharp pangs of a warped past in the cover of darkness. 

Clasping the deadly items as tightly as he can, he imagines they could impart their impact on him _again_.

He needs the reminder. 

Again.

How the fuck could he have been so outta his fuckin’ mind?

Caressing the most maimed of the bullets, Rio's lost in thought. 

The memory floods his mind like an untameable wave. 

His heart slamming fiercely against his chest, both from exertion and…something else. Then, climbing up three flights of stairs had felt like a marathon and the powerful loathing pumping through his veins hadn’t helped. 

He’d gone by his loft straight from Rhea’s; knowing he had needed to go by to see _it_. 

To _get_ it.

His abrasive anger had fuelled him too much then; chafing at his reason, but Rio wishes, now, that he had taken a bit more time in his loft to try and understand.

Mick would have done it instead if Rio had told him to, but he’d been dealing with the aftermath of Turner’s hit. Rio also didn’t think he’d be able to deal with the look he knew Mick would have given him - he would have known immediately it had been about more than just getting the recording.

Rio had known he had had to do it _alone_. 

He’d desperately _needed_ to do it alone.

At the time, Rio’d had two out of three tokens in his pocket, but he’d felt like completing the set would’ve gotten him the answers he had wanted. 

_Still_ wants. Still _needs_.

Call it symbolism or some shit like that, but _this_ bullet - the one he’s holding now - in his new home, had been the one that had been lodged in his old loft wall. The one that was _supposed_ to have held all the answers. 

It had been the most painful.

Not physically, that one had been the first one by a fuckin’ long shot. There ain’t nothing like the pain of sacrificing his own dignity, all while impermanence had shoved itself aggressively down his throat.

Nah. _This_ bullet had been the most painful in its _aftermath_ —the one where Rio had realized just how wrong he’d been; how much he'd miscalculated. 

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times, shame on both of us.

Ain’t that right?

_This_ bullet. 

The one that had taken out a chunk of his deltoid.

It had and continues to complete the set of three.

Rio had never been superstitious, even when his ma had thrown that shit at him his entire life.

And yet, there he’d been. Believing that the second bullet Elizabeth had fired; the only one that _hadn’t been_ embedded under his skin, like Elizabeth had made sure she herself _had been_ , would have been the one to give him clarity; an outsider’s perspective so to speak.

Hell—he still thinks he’s going to magically find the answers in the mutilated metal now.

He’d been a fuckin’ idiot; he’d known that from the batshit beginning of their peculiar _partnership_. Adding in the layers of their, well—relationship of _personal_ nature, it had been and would’ve always been a fuckin’ shit show.

Rio remembers, when he’d returned to the scene of his ruin, how he’d unlocked his loft door with a shaking hand and pausing, had rested his head against the unopened door. He had allowed himself a moment to gather his frayed edges; had taken a deep breath. 

Abruptly, as soon as he had inhaled, he had started seeing stars from the effort. 

Almost like his injuries had been resisting revisiting the place of their creation.

 _Fuck_. This hadn’t been a good idea, he’d thought. 

Nah, he ain’t ever been no quitter. He had needed this. This had been and was always going to be _his_. 

His reminder.

His trophy.

His burden.

Steeling himself, he had stepped into the setting that had haunted his dreams since the moment he’d opened his eyes in the ICU; spleenless with three new healing bullet wounds he’d never thought he’d have; nothing but unbridled pandemonium coursing through his veins (he’d fuckin' refused any painkillers in the wake of his mistakes. He had deserved that pain—not to have it amenably muted).

That night, the one where _she_ had—, Rio had remembered his swimming thoughts had been about how the chestnut floors had been painted dark red. 

With his blood, yeah.

But he’d known he’d never be able to sell the place after.

And he’d been pissed.

Even as his mortality had been viciously grippin' him by its talons; making itself known, trivial hardwood stains had remained an immense point of aggravation.

Rio chuckles at his own morbid sense of irony.

Revisiting the loft, his eyes had jumped to where he’d carried an unconscious Turner, back when he had been able to lift more than his 50-pound son without struggling. Back when he had taken his temper out on Turner adversarially unmatched. 

Rio had thought about how every punch had felt like fractured glass fitting into place, knowing Elizabeth would have accepted this truce, truly _believin'_ it, only to have had the re-assembled picture of himself brutally and irreversibly obliterated not even two hours later.

Now, he scoffs at his own stupidity back then.

Cisco had had strict instructions to grab Elizabeth, but Rio hadn’t meant it _literally_. The fuckin’ idiot had fucked up.

_But_. 

So had Rio.

It’s true, he had genuinely thought that he and Elizabeth had finally moved past their bullshit, and her killing Turner would have been the exact way he could not only test the conviction of her loyalty but also _show_ her how he had been in this. How he had _wanted_ to be in this.

_With_ her.

Everything that had transpired after that night - up until the point where Rio had ultimately given into the acknowledgement and acceptance of the road that lay ahead with a reluctant shot of tequila - had neither provided him with the clarity nor the conclusion he had craved.

The things he craves, _now_.

He knows he carries responsibility for some of the consequences they have faced leading up to, during and since that ill-fated night of treachery. There's blame on both their parts. He does get that _now_. He _does_.

But. 

Rio had ridden the wave of visceral vengeance for as long as he could justify it.

Triggered by the exact moment Rio was currently reliving; prying that bullet out of the green tile, he’d felt it. 

That bullet _hadn’t_ made him feel better. 

That bullet hadn’t given him _answers_. 

More than that though, _that_ bullet had made him furious.

Rio had turned to storm out of his loft as swiftly and quickly as his healing body had allowed, only to collapse after three strides, against the wall of what had been his son’s bedroom. 

Panting, he’d sorted through stacks of precious memories he’d shared with Marcus. Collections of smiles that will never again be added to; at least not there, in what had been his loft. _Their_ loft. The loft he’d made sure to pick for Marcus’ safety and well-being. 

The thought of Marcus had given him a sudden clarity cutting through his haze of anger. A spark, igniting an overwhelming sense of reckless rage, somethin’ he hadn’t felt since Isabella. 

The destructive crest of the breaking wave had materialized then, driving his new direction.

Elizabeth, who had befriended Marcus and Rhea.

Elizabeth, who had _accepted_ money from Rhea. 

_His_ money.

_She_ was going to experience the true extent of his wrath.

That is. 

Until.

_I’m pregnant._

When she had said those two words, the undertow of that murderous wave had pulled him down to the depths of its abyss.

Gone was his feeling of revenge, only to be replaced by sheer vulnerability.

Gone was his sight of pure red fury, only to be struck by different intensities of blue, highlighted by soft afternoon light.

Gone was his smell of trauma, only to be overcome by the intoxicating scent of their sweat and just— _her_.

Gone was his sound of betrayal, only to be superseded by faint mewling; something Rio’s never been able to forget, no matter how hard he’s tried.

Gone was his taste for blood, only to be defeated by the flesh memory of the potency of pure pleasure. 

Realizing Rio’s been clutching the bullets so hard in his hand it’s now cramping, he tries to shake himself out of it. He pads over to his closet and goes to put them away. As he moves to shove the drawer shut in frustration, he catches a glimpse of Elizabeth’s necklace lying next to Isabella’s movie ticket; bought by him but Bella had been gone by the time the opening credits had started.

Without thinking about what he’s doing, Rio grabs the pearls. 

He sees his gun lying on top of his dresser. He grabs that too. Storming into the kitchen, he clutches both items incredibly tightly in his hands. 

Rio puts the pearls on the granite countertop, letting go.

He strikes at the pearls with the butt of the gun. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Three times. 

Lung. 

_Shoulder._

Spleen.

Each hit intensifies his alleviation.

The beads of sweat drip down his temples and mix with the remains of the necklace as he leans over and peers down at the mess he’s made. 

The decimated and abandoned pearls glisten innocently up at him. 

The fragile beauty of what they once were devastated by the golden gun he’s currently holding.

_Elizabeth._

Elizabeth, who as soon as she’d beckoned him with her siren call, he’d _come_.

Elizabeth, last night, who had pulled him to her, accepting him, _wanting_ him after everything.

And Rio had… just—let her.

Rio stops his thoughts there. He can’t think about that. Marcus is gunna be here soon, and he—. 

He stares at the mess in front of him. Putting his gun in his waistband, he gathers up the destroyed remnants of their past and sweeps them in a bowl with his hand. Some of Elizabeth’s pearls had come loose during his aggression and scattered under some of his furniture beyond his reach—he’d deal with them later.

After putting his gun in his safe, he hops in the shower quickly to clean up. As he’s stepping out of his bedroom, he hears the sound of the front door opening, and small feet pattering entering.

“Daddy!”

“Ey, pop!” He bends down to scoop up Marcus in his arms. 

Shit—he can feel the tremors from the violence he’d just committed in his kitchen vibrating tension throughout his arms. Rio puts his son down gently, ruffling Marcus’ hair.

“Can we go to the zoo this week?” he asks.

Rio looks up, meeting Rhea’s eyes. “He’s been asking all morning - they learned about endangered species this week,” she says, answering his silent question.

“I think we can make that work. What’d you learn in school?” He grins at Marcus.

“We learned about birds! I told everyone about your tattoo in my class.” Marcus’s face lights up with pride.

“You tell them what kind it is?”

“I did! I told them it's a Whiskey Jack! They didn’t know that bird.” Marcus whispers the last part behind his hand as if he’s scandalized his class didn’t know about Canada’s national bird. “but they’re not on the endangered species list.”

A university library and stacks of ornithology books bubble up to the foreground of Rio’s memory. Bella, throwing an eraser at him when he’d asked her about her fascination with jays.

“You _are_ Canadian right, Chris? _You_ should know that the gray jay is your national bird,” she'd asked him in disbelief.

Back when Rio had been Chris, back when—.

Just back.

Chris had become Rio the moment Isabella had become nothing but a memory. But _Rio_ had needed something tangible to tie him to Chris so he had gotten that gut-wrenching reminder tattooed on his neck. For her. For him. For them.

Marcus tugs Rio back to here and now, his small hand pulling at Rio’s wrist gently. Rio looks down at him. “Aight, we’ll check out the conservatory there. How’s that sound?” Marcus’ hands shoot up in the air in jubilation, and Rio’s awash with fondness and pride.

Rhea, putting her hand affectionately on Marcus’ shoulder, says, “Papi, go put your stuff away, ok? You can tell your dad about what you learned later.”

Marcus nods, grabbing his bag and turns to run into his room.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Is there a particular reason you came here today, Beth?” Robin’s soothing voice cuts through Beth’s current state of panic.

She’d called Robin at the end of last week asking if she’d had any openings or availabilities this week. But she hadn’t told Robin _why_ she wanted, no—needed, to talk to her.

And.

Well.

Expressing herself verbally is _not_ her strong suit; Beth knows it’s never been. She’s personally always preferred to nurture and watch her self-destructive thoughts grow, pruning them into something somewhat manageable. 

Unfortunately, her usual tactics of distracting herself had only ended up with her slashing her hand open last weekend while Beth had been making a year’s worth of Chicken Parmesan. 

The bright fresh blood, the heat of the laceration and immediate shock finally defeating her attempt at controlled composure. 

She had slid down the counter until she’d been lying on the floor, mesmerized by the patterns her blood had been forming on their floor. It hadn’t been until Jane had found her and brought her the first aid kit that Beth had realized she might be out of her depth with this one. 

By the time the blood had pooled into the size of a frisbee Beth had been back on her feet, her hand taped shut and she’d been mentally making a checklist of cleaning supplies she would need to rid the floor of its crimson taint.

Knowing Annie and Ruby would only look at her with dismay and disapproval— _especially_ Ruby, Beth had crossed them swiftly off her list of people she could talk to. Annie would just judge her for making the _exact_ choices Beth had judged _her_ for making.

What had happened between her and Dean, her and Annie _and_ her and Rio during the auction night had just all felt like too much. 

_Feels_ like too much.

Instead of seeds being planted, it’s an overgrown forest; thick dense trees with no path and no light ahead. 

No way out.

“Can I talk to you about something that happened a few days ago?”

Robin smiles at her. “Of course, that’s what I’m here for.” She gestures openly with her hand for Beth to continue.

Now that Beth’s here in this moment with Robin, she finds she’s at a complete loss as to what to say. She doesn’t really know how to talk about what had happened without bringing up a whole slew of questions she can’t answer. 

After a few pensive moments, Beth smiles weakly. “We had this event a few nights ago to promote our business, and during this event, um... a few things happened. I guess I just don’t know how to process and move forward from them.”

“Can you share what happened with me? Or describe what you are feeling and are struggling with because of what happened?” Robin asks.

“I guess I feel like… I’m on a train that’s constantly increasing in speed, and everything I try to do to slow it down just makes it go faster. Everything I do makes it worse.”

“How do you cope with that feeling?”

How _does_ she cope with it?

She doesn’t. 

_Bethie_ does. 

_Bethie_ has been her escape and purgatory so deep-rooted in her person she wouldn't know how to unsnarl herself from the illusion without doing major damage.

Beth looks at Robin, trying and failing to articulate her thoughts. 

Seeming to understand Beth’s inability to put into words how she’s feeling, Robin gets up, walking over to sit next to her on the soft sofa. She turns so she’s facing Beth, crossing her legs and putting her glasses on top of her head.

“Can you share what happened?”

“Angry words were said, feelings were hurt, and… people were—left,” Beth responds, the last word barely making its way out of her mouth. Beth furiously tries to blink away the tears forming in her eyes. 

She was— _left_. 

Again.

After scars were— _felt_.

In a real and unavoidable way. 

Up until this point they’d been existing in this state of unacknowledged limbo, or well, at least Beth had convinced herself _she’d_ been, anyways.

That soft puckered skin had been slightly raised and a few degrees warmer than the rest of his skin; it had been anticipating the touch of its perpetrator. She had also caught a brief sight of that uneven line tracing its way down his rib cage, her heart stopping as he had turned and—

“Dean?” Robin’s voice, like a beacon, draws her back to the present.

Beth hums a vague response. 

“How has your business relationship been affected since you had asked him to leave?”

She snorts as a response to Robin’s question. 

After that whole Clarissa debacle, Beth couldn’t help but feel humiliated in front of all her coworkers and guests, and, as much as she hates to admit it, in front of Rio. Beth had impulsively started looking up how she could buy Dean out of the spa business. It had simply started as an attempt to detach a car from her hurtling train heading god-knows-where but once she’d started, it had quickly become her answer. 

A focal point to release her hurricane of undealt emotions. 

Beth doesn’t even think Dean deserves to be bought out, especially after the financial debt he'd originally got them all in, but Beth knows he may back out more quietly if there’s financial compensation. “I’m looking into buying him out, actually.”

Robin nodding, says, “Have you talked to him about it?” And, when Beth shakes her head, Robin asks, “How do you imagine he’ll respond?”

“I don’t think I’m going to give him a choice.”

“Does he usually respond better if you don’t give him a choice?”

“What do you mean?”

“How would he respond if you just asked him about buying him out?”

“He’d probably make up another lie about having cancer.” 

Robin raises an eyebrow as a response. 

“Putting it lightly, Dean is very tactless,” Beth explains.

“It sounds like you’ve been holding onto a lot of anger towards Dean. Have you ever shared with him what actions of his have angered you?”

Beth’s defences emerge rapidly, materializing in the space between her and Robin. “No, I don’t see why that matters.”

“It matters, Beth, because anger is an incredibly powerful thing to hold on to. It’s also absolutely one of the most human emotions one can experience. While I personally think expressing it is _crucial_ to any healthy relationship and remaining true to ourselves, it's an incredibly fragile and misleading emotion at its heart. It can manifest itself in many ways - from indiscernible to explosive, and it can change over time the more you hold onto it. When someone’s angry with someone else, the best thing to do is to _vocalize_ it and the reason behind it. Expressing it in a way that allows the speaker to be heard by the listener is an important foundation to being able to have a space to share emotions openly. Not only the easy ones but _also_ the hard ones too; this is part of authenticity. 

"Everyone gets angry - that’s a given. How we choose to express and solve it heavily influences how we perceive the person that has angered us moving forward. When anger is not acknowledged, or worse, _buried_ , it can start to simmer and can morph into very unhealthy and toxic feelings such as resentment, dishonesty, and I think maybe in your case, disregard for the other person. It can become an inconspicuous monster unseen and pulling the strings in parts of your relationship. Not only that, but it can be very detrimentally taxing to hold onto these feelings.” Robin pauses for a moment. “This may be difficult to consider, Beth, but have you ever considered forgiving Dean? Or just finding a way to _let go_ of the anger you’ve been holding on to?”

The words themselves take a minute to penetrate the protective fortress in Beth’s mind.

_Forgiveness?_

Like she’d told Amber she _had_ forgiven Dean.

Like Beth hasn’t forgiven Rio. Like she _can’t_ forgive him. Like she can’t forgive _herself_.

The unfortunate reality is that she’d forgiven Dean for the affairs a long time ago, long before Rio had unintentionally unbalanced the scales by shooting him, but Beth hadn’t cared enough to repair the relationship afterwards saturated in all that guilt.

So, when Dean had cheated on her again, Beth had almost felt… grateful? 

To at last have another excuse to cut all romantic ties with him, once and for all. Not that their relationship had been really romantic for well—a while, anyways. How could it have been when they _both_ had been so willing to carry on with the charade with each other?

Sure, she had been angry with Dean and still carries that torch; however feeble that flame is becoming. But really, her anger hasn’t been directed at his blatant disregard for her or their relationship - it's been more about jeopardizing their kids' lives and wellbeing. And he is _still_ failing at that. This is why Beth _needs_ to be the stable source of income in the family.

Robin, misinterpreting Beth’s silence, says, “I don’t mean forgive Dean to patch up your marriage, or even your business relationship, not if you both choose not to. But, by forgiving each other, or simply trying to, you both can set examples for your children: they will see that you two are on good terms, or at least _trying_ to be. For you two, especially while the added complexities of your business partnership and marriage come to an end and your custody and separation details work themselves out, don’t you think forgiveness is something that could complement and facilitate the undertaking?” She looks at Beth. “Do you _want_ to forgive him?”

Beth finds herself wishing at that moment that she could _want_ to fix things with Dean enough to set a positive example of themselves for their kids. But her lack of energy for him, and just overall fatigue of entertaining a future with him, is startling compared to her desire to resolve her most pressing— _disruption_ of well, nothing except the false belief of her own lack of negligence.

She does want to forgive _someone_. Just not Dean.

Even bathing in... in her _denial_ —

She—

She _does_.

With everything she has. 

With everything she doesn’t have.

But—

_Can_ she?

“Forgive— _him_?” Beth asks Robin at long last; discombobulated, the latter obviously not aware of her train of thoughts. Beth can’t even fathom the words _forgive_ and _Rio_ in the same sentence. Two separate words from diametrically opposite languages, completely incomprehensible to each other.

Beth stares at Robin.

The real question is, _should_ she?

After— 

_After_ , she’d decided there was no way she could _ever_ forgive him. 

Anyone who can just—order an innocent’s girl’s death like that doesn’t _deserve_ forgiveness.

She _needs_ him to remain unforgivable. If not—

No.

He’d baited her. He’d used her. He’d hurt her. He’d _left_ her.

But.

He’d left her after…after— _she’d_ left _him_. In more ways than one.

Wasn’t _that_ what had inevitably cost Lucy her life?

After all, _she’d_ been the one that had basically sentenced Lucy to that fate. 

_My girl._

Beth had felt her heart plummet, her gears kickstarting her survival instincts when Rio had used those dreadful words.

How were they _both_ so complicit in the same crime? When neither of them had _actually_ pulled the trigger?

Inhale the responsibility.

Exhale the blame.

There’s absolutely no way she should forgive Rio, or herself, but—she can’t _tell_ Robin that.

Finally, Beth slowly nods her head, pushing her luck.

“Beth, I think that’s really good. Forgiveness aside, the fact that you _want_ to is important.” Robin watches her carefully, seeming to catch on to Beth’s hesitation.

Well.

Fuck it.

Might as well— _ask_.

“At what point does someone become unforgivable?”

“Do you mean Dean or yourself?”

“Both of us, I guess,” Beth says, evasively.

“What does unforgivable mean to you, Beth?”

What _is_ unforgivable to her?

Apparently, threats, manipulation and physical violence are not on that list.

But—attempted _murder_?

Against others - Eddie? Dean? Lucy? 

Against themselves?

Like she—

No, what had hurt the most hadn’t been the shallow bruises left by his gun. 

It had been the deep gashes left by his words.

_I don’t work while on vacation._

_Pretty much, yeah._

_That’s it._

And his actions. 

Abandoning her. Only to terrify her.

Robin’s voice cuts through her reverie, and Beth realizes she’s been sitting wordlessly wading through her and Rio’s turbulent turmoil for too long. “In general, forgiveness among many people is entirely subjective. Each person has their own hard limits about what behaviour they can and can’t forgive.”

Isn’t _that_ the truth.

“However, I also think that those hard limits aren’t set in stone. They may not change over time, and that’s up to the individual entirely, but I think because many people’s values seem to be somewhat fluid to accommodate new experiences, one’s ability to tolerate certain behaviour can change as one adjusts to the world around them. So, something that may have been unforgivable before may become forgivable, or at least understandable, in the future. This, unfortunately, can go both ways - both positive and negative behaviours can become habits, and as a result, our reception of them can shift. Does that make sense?”

Beth inclines her head, playing with the fabric of the cushion. “How do two people move past some of the worse things they’ve done to each other?”

She traces the seam of the edge with her trigger finger.

_Lung._

Shoulder.

_Spleen._

“I think that depends on you and Dean and how willing you two are to move past them.”

Beth’s quiet for a minute. “I wouldn’t even know how to process a fraction of the stuff we’ve done to each other.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m responsible for him being shot.”

Robin stares at her impassively, waiting for her to continue.

Beth remembers Rio cocking his gun; the sound something she’ll never be able to rid herself of, just before he had given it to her.

_Just_ before she’d blamed their fucked up entirety on him.

 _Just_ before she’d made sure she’d annihilated any memory they’d once shared, just so she could— _exist_ with what’d she’d done next.

Before he’d come back to haunt her, a constant allusion to her derelict. Of her. Of him. Of Marcus.

Before they’d set off the chain of events that had led to Lucy’s death.

Before _she’d_ set off the chain of events that had led to Lucy’s death.

Just _after_ he’d left her.

Beth looks down at her hands. She clears her throat, trying to stop her formed tears from falling. 

_Dean._

“He got mugged a while back, and his recovery wasn’t… the—easiest for all of us.”

“Beth, I’m sure he doesn’t hold you accountable.”

Oh, if only _he_ didn’t.

“If only,” she eventually concedes.

“What does he do that makes you think he still hasn’t forgiven you?”

_That ship sailed when you put three slugs in me._

_Maybe you’re right, I’m the problem._

_Next time, empty the clip._

_You don’t get a say in this, remember?_

_We’ll never be good, darling._

“He reminds me of… being—shot, whenever he has the chance.”

“So he holds it over your head?”

Beth nods.

Robin looks at her. “I’m sure it doesn’t feel good being manipulated like that. It’s not fair how he’s using your guilt to against you. However, Beth,” Robin breaks off for a moment to appraise her, before continuing. “I think overall his words validate that he is _still_ hurt by what happened. 

"I’m not saying you’re responsible, of course, you’re not, but it’s important to note that _he_ holds you accountable in some way for what happened. If Dean were dismissive, that would be a whole other ballgame. But, _because_ he brings it up when he does, he’s communicating with you that he needs to talk about it with you. He _needs_ to find a way to express his hurt to you, even if, and sometimes, _especially_ if, it hurts you too.

"Have you two been able to have an honest conversation about what happened?”

One after another, the whirlwind of Robin’s words takes its time settling in.

Beth thinks about every time she or Rio have come close to broaching the subject, and how one or both of them shut it down.

Beth, who continues to draw her walls up constantly around him.

Rio, who couldn’t get out of that water fast enough when she’d felt— _the_ scar. Her indelible imprint on him. 

_Her_ scar. 

_His_ scar. 

His _pain_. 

His _recovery_.

No, there’s _no way_ Rio would even want to talk about it.

But—what _if_?

_What_ if?

What if he _does_?

What if he _needs_ to talk about how she—

Beth’s heart splinters, a sharp edge cutting it open. 

She—

Inhale.

She _shot_ him. Three times.

_Beth_.

Exhale. 

Then left him for _dead_. 

_Rio_.

Inhale.

Beth shot Rio and then _left_ him. 

Rio, who—

Exhale. She allows the tears to trickle out and down her cheeks.

Rio, who is a _father_.

Like _Beth_ is a mother.

These thoughts puncture her blissfully buoyant beliefs. 

They anchor her blame. 

They anchor her shame. 

They anchor her guilt. 

They anchor her pain.

Horror savagely crashes into remorse, completely drenching Beth in the revolting reality. The atrocities she’s committed that she hadn’t been able to face until—now.

What kind of _person_ does that make her?

What kind of _parent_ does that make her?

Beth tries to reconcile her two ripped asymmetrical pieces.

She doesn’t think _anything_ she could say to Rio would right those wrongs to him. To them. To _her_.

Was there anything _he_ could say to _her_ to mend her own scars?

“No.”

“Do you remember what I said about being authentic with him?” Robin asks.

Beth nods.

“I think, Beth, you have an opportunity here. It’s important to create a space where both of you can be honest and vulnerable with each other. Where _both_ of you can express how hurt and angry you both are from your own and his actions. You’re welcome to do that here, with me, if you want. I’m happy to help you both feel heard by the other. But it doesn’t have to be with me, either. I think that because Dean is making it known that he’s still hurt by your actions, and you want to be more authentic with him, I do think that both have the potential to move forward and heal together transparently, on your own separate paths of course.”

Beth nods again. 

“What do _you_ want to talk to him about, Beth?”

“I don’t—,” Beth’s voice tears; broken like her. 

Inhale.

Exhale.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“If I may make a suggestion,” Robin watches Beth until she nods meekly, “what might be best is to start with what happened most recently the other night. Use what occurred as a way to frame why you feel the way you do, based on the past. If you start with the most concrete memory it may help you both approach each other in a grounded way. It shouldn’t be an easy conversation, Beth. It will be emotional. It will be hard. It will be painful. Expressing the ways that you feel disregarded, hurt, angry, abandoned, or resentful and _why_ is not going to be easy. Neither will be hearing the way you’ve hurt, angered or abandoned him.”

Truth is, Beth can’t even imagine talking to Rio about the last night when they—, how the hell is she supposed to talk about—

“And Beth?”

Her eyes snap to Robin’s.

“Using “I feel” can help connect you to your own thoughts and feelings, while it also helps Dean know exactly what’s going through your head without putting the blame directly on him. Does this sound like something you'd like to do with me?” Robin asks kindly.

“I think I need to do this on my own.” Beth says, the weight of the honesty behind her words confirming them.

She gathers her things and heads out of Robin’s office. As she reaches the door, she turns to Robin, sincerely grateful. “Robin—thank you. You’ve really helped in more ways than one.”

Robin nods at her, a small smile on her face as Beth turns to go.

She takes a deep breath. She needs to find Rio. 

But first—she needs to talk to Lucy.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************

Beth’s key scrapes in the metallic lock of the front door. As she steps into the Paper Porcupine, a sorrowful breeze passes through her. 

She shivers, taking a moment to gather herself as she shuts the door closed.

She’s been to the Paper Porcupine two times this week.

Why, now, does _this_ time feel so much more—significant?

As Beth enters the main part of the shop, she’s struck with the memory of when she met Lucy for the first time, her warm and welcoming smile a comforting blanket over Beth’s anxiety as she’d been introduced to Dorothy.

Beth walks shakily over to Lucy’s desk. She drags her finger over the block of wood, remembering with surprising ease the unbearable morning after Lucy’s death. Beth standing right here—in front of her desk.

Now, she looks around at the missing objects that had been there that morning. 

Lucy’s mug of tea is gone. It had had its fleeting moment of existence, full of purpose and direction. Like Lucy.

Now gone. Like Lucy.

Beth glances to where Lucy’s work supplies seem to have been reorganized on her desk, remembering the other items that had been there that morning. 

How finding Lucy’s purse had sparked a heinous sequence of events.

How the incomprehensible dread and responsibility she’d felt had manifested itself in such an ugly state of blame.

God, what an unequivocal shit show.

How is it that it had come to _this_? 

Beth looks around at the neat desk. Most of Lucy’s desk supplies were still there, just moved around for Jess; Dorothy’s new hire of a graphic designer, to use and call her own.

And then, like Beth can’t help seeing Lucy’s supplies in different spots on her desk, she starts to reorganize. 

_I’m so sorry, Lucy._

Beth moves the stapler and tape dispenser back in the bottom left corner. 

_I shouldn’t have brought you into this._

Beth places the highlighters back into the baby blue octagonal box labelled _stuff_. 

_You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to get caught up in—, let alone die._

Beth positions the electronic drawing tablet in front of the computer screen.

_Au jus is home with Max now—Max seems to be doing better; I brought him some Chicken Parmesan._

Beth arranges the different coloured ink bottles along the top of the desk.

_You deserved more than to be treated like a pawn in some game._

Beth squares Lucy’s old hedgehog agenda parallel to the tape dispenser and stapler. Her eyes fall on a lone chess piece, toppled over beside the computer screen.

_A masochistic game of lethal chess._

Beth’s suddenly rethinking her and Rio’s entire history in a new light; how every move has felt like a calculated chess move. 

_Still_ does. 

She thinks how some of the worst things she’s done have been because she’d been trying to one-up Rio, all for their twisted game to advance.

But Beth has never played the game with someone of his calibre. 

Him, a Grandmaster. Someone who only plays people in his league. 

She, an amateur. Someone who had only played a few games here and there growing up. 

Beth’s parents had thrust her into the game of chess called real life, too fast and too soon, against her will, without knowing or explaining the rules. Being a parent means preparing your offspring for the real world, doesn’t it? 

It hadn’t been until she’d been crouching over Trysten’s lifeless body; shaking with shock, she’d found out the most important rule of them all: never show weakness. You become vulnerable, you lose the game.

Now that Beth thinks about it, her marriage with Dean had also been a game of chess—one where’d she’d lost. She had lulled Dean into a false sense of winning without seeing that _her_ monarch had been vulnerable, overtaken by _his_ pawn; Amber-shaped in its juvenility. 

Guess she hadn’t remembered that rule correctly after all. Or hadn’t expected it from _Dean_.

With Rio, Beth had gotten beginner’s luck. At least at first, right?

Stealing from him. Setting him up. Stealing from him, again. Then, after—, washing money through his world. Befriending Rhea and Marcus. Claiming she’d been pregnant. Really, the amount of plays she’s made against him is endless.

What had _his_ been?

Setting her up. Shooting Dean. Inserting himself in her business. Using her. Manipulating her. Threatening her.

Right now, the light in the Paper Porcupine, illuminating the interior from the midnight darkness outside, causes her to recall another emotionally charged evening. One where she’d been out of her mind with frightened apprehension and, if she's being honest with herself, a modicum of exhilarated pride. A counter move on his part, due to their—almost… stalemate?

_I think I need you alive._

And then, abruptly unleashed because of that memory, her thoughts are brought to another time when she’d felt a similar mix of apprehension, exhilaration and…nervous curiousity? The echo of a delicately day-lit afternoon; an exceptionally perfect draw between the two of them, only to be fractured by her harsh words not even two hours later. 

Had _that_ afternoon just been a carefully calculated move on her part? After all, she had felt like it had been now or never, without thoughts of what would happen after.

Now or never, to see if he had tasted as he had smelled. Which he hadn’t. If his overpowering smell had made her head spin with overwhelming attraction, it had been nothing compared to his flavour of heady decadence waking up nerves she never knew she had with enlightened excitement.

Now or never, to experience _him_. In a way she’d never experienced any other person. To let her walls down in a way she’d never done before.

Now or never, to see if he had felt the same way. Which he hadn’t.

Her only thoughts had been to end their game before she got hurt. She couldn’t have played two simultaneous games at the same time. 

Either way both of those reasons had been in vain; she’d been hurt either way.

By herself.

By him.

_You, me, we—it’s just business._

_That’s it._

And then, from earlier, today.

_I think overall his words validate that he is still hurt by what happened._

_But, because he brings it up when he does, he’s communicating with you that he needs to talk about it with you._

Robin’s words unexpectedly take on new meaning. 

Maybe—

_I hit it in the bedroom when your husband was at work._

_They always do._

Had Rio felt hurt at _that_ moment? Maybe—the shooting hadn’t been where she’d hurt him _first_?

Was it possible she hadn’t been _just_ business that afternoon? 

What about _now_?

Beth still has faded yellow oval impressions on her still tender hips—the marks she’s avoided inspecting at all costs. She remembers Rio’s release of breath mingling with her own when she had pulled herself closer to him the other night and how he’d clung to her more tightly as a result. 

_I’m done. No more cash, no more pills._

Beth now thinks that her silent _no more you_ might have been more obvious than she’d originally thought it had been. 

She’d only said it in her head to hurt herself.

Maybe it had hurt him, too.

Regardless. She’d attempted to end their game, apparently not realizing the weight of her opponent’s desire to keep her playing. _Or_ , in light of this novel realization, maybe after that afternoon - the weight of Rio’s scorned feelings.

After all, he’d warned them of the FBI raid without asking for anything in return, right?

At least. 

Until he had.

But it had never been _just_ a game.

Rio had always known it is play to win or die.

_You gotta win, bitch._

_You go to jail or you die._

But in their game, he hadn’t played by his own rules.

Isn’t it well known that the player who plays first has the advantage? The Fine and Frugal robbery had been Beth’s unexpected advantage all along, setting their game alight with an imbalance of power; unaware to them both. It hadn’t been until the fatal escalation of their game resulted in—

When Rio had kidnapped Beth and handed her a loaded gun, _his_ gun, he’d been leaving himself vulnerable. Too vulnerable. And Beth had used her advantage.

Horror-struck, outraged and betrayed, yes. But still, she’d used her advantage.

_Checkmate_. 

The King had fallen at Beth’s amateur hand. 

She had been his vulnerability, after all.

But after Beth had destroyed the game _and_ the board along with it (she had desperately needed to forget the plays that had led up to this deadly conclusion), she'd run.

Run from the part she’d played in his demise.

Run towards the only place she could go— _Bethie_.

Rio, like Beth, had underestimated her willingness to get out of the game. How far she had been willing to just—stop playing. At least _with_ him.

After she’d ended their rapidly spiralling game, the King had been reanimated just to restart their game. 

Or at least end the game on _his_ terms. After all, he wasn’t used to losing, was he?

The board had been reset, and he had been willing to play dirty this time. Cut her no breaks. Treat her like any other player.

This game had had Beth fighting tooth and nail for the business she’d created and tried to salvage. Every move she’s made since then: taking the plates, stealing from him _again_ , hiring Fitz and everything else had been to keep herself afloat in this new and brutal game she’d been forced into. 

_God Lucy, can you ever forgive me?_

Rio had used Lucy as a sacrificial pawn to show her that her pawns were and always will be his; _nothing_ in this game is hers. This new game's on _his_ terms. Even more so when he had made yet another play and stolen her furniture, making his point mockingly clear.

The truth is that Beth’s _exhausted_. She’s tired of trying to outplay him.

And Rio must be too. 

Hell, she _shot_ him for god’s sake. _Three times_. God, she can’t even imagine the kind of physical toll that would have had on him. Still must have on him.

His grimace from the other night floats to the forefront of her mind. It hadn’t been the shoulder she’d shot but—she’d hated seeing him in pain. 

How are they always so intent on hurting each other?

Well, at least, authenticity between her and Rio has never been an issue. 

He’s always seen her for herself, and she—. She’s always known who he is, hasn’t she? 

It’s just been as disquieting as it’s been true. There’s a difference between honesty and authenticity, right?

Miscommunication. And death threats. That’s what’s included in their authentic selves. 

Weirdly enough, Beth can accept that.

And Rio had been so close to killing her too. Multiple times.

Hadn’t he?

But— _hadn’t_ he?

He’d never _actually_ pulled the trigger on her. 

The realization smacks her in the face. Well, other than the obvious: she would be well— _dead_ if he had.

But— _why_ is she alive? 

He _hadn’t been_. 

_Because_ of her.

And all of a sudden, she understands his irreconcilable pain. The amount of times they’ve mirrored the monstrosities they’ve enacted against each other— _pulling the trigger_ remains the greatest disparity between the two of them.

Because— _Beth_ had done it.

She slides down the wall behind Lucy’s desk and puts her head against the wall, tears streaming down her face. 

What _did_ she do?

What is she _doing_?

What _should_ she do?

Whether or not she had been just business or not, the reality is that she’s still alive now. 

She doesn’t know why, but she knows she needs to _try_.

How can she teach Kenny about taking responsibility when she can’t even _accept_ the blame for what she’d attempted to do?

How can she teach Danny about facing consequences when she can’t even _understand_ the depth of the hurt she herself has caused Rio?

How can she teach Emma about telling the truth when she can’t even be _honest_ with herself?

How can she teach Jane about kindness when she’d tried to _end_ Marcus’ dad’s life?

Beth has to understand _why_.

Why.

Why she’s still playing this game _against_ him. _With_ him. 

Why she’s still alive.

_God, Lucy, can you ever forgive me? It was never Rio’s doing._

Well, that’s not _all_ true. But most of it had been her fault that they’d been driven to such extremes.

 _Only mine_.

Beth _has_ to forgive Rio. She can’t _not_. 

_This is your fault!_

Those harsh words had escaped her mouth when she’d truly believed them. Before she'd understood.

But it hadn’t been his fault, it was and is _her_ fault. 

She’s been the one pretending that she’d hadn’t had a hand in Lucy’s death, but really, she’s the _only_ one who’s at fault. 

For using Lucy. 

For baiting Rio. 

For using Rio.

For hurting Rio. 

For _leaving_ Rio.

It all comes back to him, doesn’t it?

If it’s true, and she truly has been the unforgivable one in their relationship, how on earth is she supposed to fix this? How is she supposed to make amends?

How will he? 

How will they?

She can’t stand the thought of not knowing, not _understanding_ it.

_Everything._

Wednesday. Wednesday is drop day. 

She’ll get answers then.

Her thoughts are diverted unexpectedly by the shrill tone of her phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, spa-star. It’s Gabriel.”

“Oh, hi… it’s nice to hear from you,” she answers automatically.

“I’m just calling about that dinner you promised me?”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**_Wednesday - drop day_ **

Rio smoothly weaves through the nighttime crowd, his focus immediately drawn to the familiar shockingly black hair cascading over Alena’s vivid red dress.

She sits at the bar, classic dirty martini posed mid-sip in front of her dark red lips as he approaches. He’d been expecting her to check in at some point and Rio knows she prefers to do it in person.

Alena turns her head to watch him as he slides into a stool next to her. A striking image belonging in some sort of women’s empowerment ad; much too elegant for Rio’s casual bar.

“Alena.”

“Chris.” Rio rolls his eyes. Between Reyes and Chris, Alena has always refused to call him Rio. 

“What’s up?”

“Mick on a drop right now?”

Rio hums. Charlie brings him a vodka, and he nods his gratitude at him.

“He and Alex doing well?”

“Strong as ever; been renovating their new digs. They’ve got a whole gym set-up going on in their backyard. Spa and everything.”

Alena smirks at this new information. “How was their housewarming?”

“Fuckin’ weird, but fun. Alex made themed food,” Rio snorts, lifting the drink to take a swig of his vodka.

“That sounds… entertaining,” Alena nods, laughing softly, taking a sip of her own drink. 

“You shoulda stopped by.”

“Please, those boys would have gone above and beyond - even more than they did - if they knew I would be coming by.” She turns towards Rio, putting her martini glass on the countertop lightly. “How was the zoo?”

“Pop loved it,” Rio shakes his head, remembering Marcus chasing the spots highlighted on the map. “He wants to adopt a bird now. Like I need another animal in the house; especially one that will outlive me.”

Alena throws her head back laughing. “Did he do his precious pout with his eyes going all wide?”

Rio chuckles, “Yeah. Dunno where he got that from.”

“As if.”

He shoots her a faux-offended look.

“Come on, there’s not a chance in hell he got that from Rhea.”

Rio cocks his head at her, pouting unconsciously.

Alena gestures at him with her finger holding her drink glass as if that proves her point.

Rio’s just about to respond defensively when his phone goes off. Alena shoots him a look.

“Yo.” He answers his phone hastily.

“Someone’s on my tail. Could be Mrs. B.”

He nods, not shocked. 

She’s as subtle as luminescent camouflage. 

Rio considers his options. Truth is, he’s been expecting something like this. 

He should leave.

But.

She’d tried to call him three times alone in the past couple of hours. Something must be wrong with her cut. Again.

If she’s short _again_ —

He’s gunna have to—

Rio doesn’t know.

If something’s wrong with this fuckin’ shady guy she’s now associated herself with, he’s gotta know. 

To make sure his money’s protected.

That’s all.

“Swing by.” Rio finally responds to Mick. He nods at Alena, and she throws the last of her drink down as Rio hangs up. 

“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.” Alena comments, winking, sliding off the stool. “I’ll be needing that cut by Friday.” She squeezes his shoulder gently. “Oh, and be careful.”

Rio watches Alena as she makes her way out of the bar. 

Fuck. He finishes off the rest of the clear pacifier in one gulp.

Rio drops his head down, thinking.

He knew it's gotta come to this, right?

He thinks of Alena, how she’d walked through fire; her scars are proof of how much shit she’s had to face. She’s always telling him there ain’t anything worth the heat if you don’t burn along with it. 

_Our scars are what give us power; the bookmarks of how far we’ve come. By choosing to own them, we write our own endings to our pain._

Her life had been so different from his own. Full of loss and terror in a way his life hadn’t been.

When he’d met her; within his first year in Detroit, she’d told him she thought he could be something. And he’d been nothing short of determined to prove her right. She’d seen him at his worst then; nothing but raw and singed, determined to forget the life that he had just left behind.

Yet, here he is. Having put that same faith in a woman that had almost emptied a clip in _him_.

Fuck.

He nods at Charlie, who immediately tops up his drink with their top-shelf bourbon.

Rio heads back to his office. 

Placing his hands and the tumbler on the desk, he leans down. He flexes his arms, knowing the muscle stiffness will wake up his mind. He takes a deep breath, purposeful in his movements; deeper than he should.

The blade of the too-deep breath cuts through his thoughts. He pines for the pain as a reminder of what she’s capable of. 

The wave picks up momentum.

He hears a knock on his door, and he straightens up.

“Yeah?”

The door opens, and Mick’s there. 

He ducks in, handing him Elizabeth’s work. 

Rio raises his eyebrows, looking down at the black duffel.

“Short.” Mick jerks a finger back behind him. “You can take it up with her, she was pulling in at the back when I was getting out. Sister’s shit blue whip.”

Rio nods, forcing his uncertainty down with some bourbon. 

Inhale.

_Fuck._

Exhale.

Gathering his strength, he slowly stabilizes himself upright on the board; his direction wavering as he starts to carve the surging sea.

Mick heads out.

Rio turns around and finishes off his drink. Rubbing his face gruffly, he forces his mind to go blank. It’s harder than he thinks, it always is - the exhaustion of the week settling heavily on his shoulders, weighing him down.

He’d had to get his third immunization boosters at the clinic yesterday, and that had been nothing but draining. Ever since he’d had to get his spleen removed, his body has felt like it’s been extra run down. At least these boosters would protect him in a way his non-existent spleen can’t. Another thing Elizabeth has taken from him.

He moves to step out of his office, grabbing his gun. Before he leaves, he checks to make sure it has a full clip.

She wants to do this out back, fine. He’s gunna have to find some way to get that money. But this time—

He’s all outta time.

He’s all outta patience.

He’s all outta excuses.

And—he’s all outta her.

Her pearls come to mind, against his will. 

No use holding onto something ruined, right?

Rio’s beginning to think Mick is right, he needs to just _end_ it, end _them_ , as he pushes open the back door exit.

He catches sight of a black Tesla Model 3 and a fleeting moment of recognition passes through him. Then as the door shuts softly behind him, a strong hand clamps a damp fabric over his mouth. A gold university ring on the index finger flashes into his vision.

As Rio inhales, his nose and throat burn savagely as the chloroform makes its way into his system. He sees that same hand suffocating him passing him a football; nothing but blue and yellow university colours seeping in from his memories.

As Rio exhales, the dizziness leaves him; unconsciousness pulling at him mercilessly. The last time he had seen Gabe’s face had been at Isabella’s funeral in Dearborn, when he’d broken his promise to him, needing to leave him behind. Needing to leave _them_ behind.

As darkness seizes him, Rio’s eyes are met with a flash of delicate curls and cerulean. 

_Elizabeth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -a big thank you for all everyone's lovely comments and kudos, i really appreciate them - they truly motivate and encourage me so so so much!!
> 
> -fool me once, twice, three times quote by Stephen King: it’s like you knew Brio???
> 
> -about rio's gun: while i strongly adhere to [@fogmagpie](https://foxmagpie.tumblr.com)'s and [@ms_scarlet](https://mego42.tumblr.com)'s [analysis](https://foxmagpie.tumblr.com/post/635819836146122752/completely-random-question-do-you-think-theres) of the _lack_ of golden gun after 2.13 in canon, for the sake of symbolism in my fic Rio still has the golden gun
> 
> -whiskey jacks are canada's national bird but they also are called gray jays and canada jays. the name whiskey jack/whisky jack is an anglicized derivative from the cree word "wisakedjak." it remains the only canadian bird name that is commonly referred to by a traditional indigenous word.
> 
> -did most of my research for chess come from queen's gambit? yes. sorry if there are some inaccuracies to real life.
> 
> -Alena's scar quote is inspired by this one by Brené Brown: "The power of owning our stories is that we get to write the endings."


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